'ornia 


The 


•  I  r 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY- 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE    CAMOMILE 


AN  INVENTION 


BY 


CATHERINE  CARSWELL 


"The  camomile,  the  more  it  is  trodden  on, 
the  faster  it  grows." 

/  Henry  IV.  ii.  4. 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND   COMPANY,    INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.  S.   A.    BY 

THE   QUINN    a    BODEN    COMPANY 

RAHWAY.    N.    J. 


The  author  desires  to  acknowledge  the 
courtesy  of  the  proprietors  of  The  Outlook 
(London)  hi  permitting  her  to  include  in 
the  present  work  "A  Girl's  Song,"  which 
was  first  published  a  number  of  years  ago 
in  their  Journal. 


20*' 


The  Camomile 


Praeludium 

25  BLANDFORD  TERRACE,  GLASGOW, 

Sunday,  September  2,  19 — . 
MY  DEAREST  RUBY: 

We  got  back  from  Loch  Sween  last  night.  It  was 
still  raining  there  when  we  left  and  we  reached  home 
in  a  downpour.  To-day  it  rains  steadily.  A  wet 
Glasgow  Sunday!  In  spite  of  Eliza's  efforts  to  have 
everything  "nice  and  bright"  for  our  return,  I  don't 
like  this  new  main-door  flat  of  ours  in  Billhead. 
Aunt  Harry  says  it  is  "nice  and  cozy,"  but  Ronald 
and  I  would  both  far  rather  be  in  the  dingy,  roomy 
old  place  in  Blythswood  Square  where  even  Ronald 
thinks  he  can  remember  Father's  last  visit  to  us,  and 
of  course  I  do  in  every  detail.  I  suppose,  though, 
that  I  ought  not  to  complain,  as  the  flitting  was 
forced  on  Aunt  Harry  by  my  going  to  Germany.  At 
least  so  she  says,  which  makes  me  all  the  more  de- 
termined to  start  earning  money  at  once.  To- 
morrow I  begin  with  my  first  private  pupils — two 
children  of  six  and  eight,  daughters  of  a  shipowner 
called  Lockhart.  I  shall  go  to  their  house  which 

s 


4  The  Camomile 

is  said  to  be  very  grand — all  carved  oak  and  tapes- 
tries and  colored  glass  in  the  windows.  Reverence 
enters  the  voice  that  speaks  of  it.  All  the  same, 
Mrs.  L.  tried  to  beat  down  the  fee  printed  on  my 
cards  (three  guineas  for  twelve  lessons)  to  four 
guineas  for  the  two  girls.  Then  on  Wednesday 
morning,  immediately  after  nine  o'clock  prayers  at  a 
cranky  sort  of  private  school  near  here,  I'm  to  give 
a  first  "Music  Lecture" — a  ten  minutes'  talk  with 
illustrations  at  the  piano — to  the  assembled  pupils. 
Your  Ellen  is  the  latest  new-fangled  notion  of  Miss 
Sutherland,  the  headmistress.  Anyhow,  this  should 
help  me  to  keep  up  my  practice. 

Not  bad,  you  say,  for  a  beginning?  Perhaps  not. 
But,  Ruby,  I  feel  "that  nair-rvous,"  as  we  say  here, 
and,  what  is  worse,  a  fraud.  What  if  I  have  no  gift 
for  teaching?  It  is  very  funny  to  notice  how  im- 
pressed, yet  how  skeptical  Aunt  Harry  is.  If  she 
has  read  my  professional  card  once,  she  has  read  it 
fifty  times,  but  I'm  sure  she  believes  no  more  than 
I  do  that  I  shall  really  be  paid  money  for  my  lessons. 

In  spite  of  the  rain  I  did  like  being  in  the  West 
Highlands  again,  and  it  was  lovely  having  Ronald 
away  from  his  friends,  even  from  Mungo  Fleming, 
and  all  to  myself.  Yet  I  was  glad  to  leave  yester- 
day. It  is  high  time  I  made  the  plunge  here.  Three 


The  Camomile  5 

months  already,  Ruby,  since  we  left  Frankfort! 
And  to  me  it  seems  much  more.  Ronald  is  sitting 
beside  me  now,  clearing  his  desk,  and  he  keeps 
shoving  packets  of  my  Frankfort  letters  across  the 
floor  to  me  with  the  point  of  one  of  his  crutches. 
He  says  he  kept  them  all,  thinking  they  might  in- 
terest me  later.  Here  is  a  bit  of  one  that  will  amuse 
you,  as  it  tells  of  our  first  meeting  that  day  of  the 
Prufung,  almost  exactly  three  years  ago.  The  letter 
is  dated  solemnly 

MY  NINETEENTH  BIRTHDAY, 
c/o  FRAULEIN  BRUCH, 
FEUERBACH  STRASSE  2iA, 

FRANKFURT-AM-MAIN. 

"...  I  have  gone  through  my  Prujung  at  the 
Conservatorium  to-day  and  come  off  not  so  badly. 
Also  I  think  I  have  made  a  new  friend,  one  as  dif- 
ferent from  Madge  Bruce  or  Laura  Sterling  as  you 
can  imagine.  Probably  neither  Laura  nor  Madge 
could  stand  Ruby  (that's  her  name — Ruby  Marcus) , 
but  then  my  friends  never  were  very  good  at  stand- 
ing one  another.  While  I  was  waiting  to  be  heard 
I  sat  with  a  lot  of  other  new  students  in  an  ante- 
room. Next  to  me  on  one  side  was  a  short,  square 
girl  in  a  sailor  dress  that  scarcely  came  to  her 


6  The  Camomile 

knees.  She  had  a  big  pale  face,  big  hands  and  feet, 
and  beautiful  gray  eyes,  very  steady,  with  heavy 
lids.  Her  black  curls  must  have  been  done  with 
papers,  I  think,  for  though  most  of  them  only 
reached  her  neck,  the  bits  that  had  been  missed  out 
were  dead  straight  and  hung  down  to  her  shoulders. 
She  was  got  up  to  look  about  nine,  but  told  me  she 
was  fourteen.  She  chatted  away  like  anything, 
speaking  in  an  attractive  voice  but  with  an  ugly 
accent.  Her  name  is  Dobbin  and  she  comes  from 
Leeds,  where  she  has  played  at  festivals  since  she 
was  six.  Her  father  is  blind  and  very  poor,  and 
a  rich  widow  is  putting  up  the  money  for  her  mu- 
sical education.  Laura  would  have  called  her  com- 
mon. But  though  on  my  other  side  there  was  a 
pretty  London  girl  whom  Laura  would  have  liked, 
with  a  ladylike  expression  and  a  beautifully  cut 
white  serge  dress,  I  felt  sure  from  the  first  that  Dob- 
bin was  a  genius  and  this  other,  so  far  anyhow  as 
art  was  concerned,  just  trash.  Perhaps  genius  is 
a  part  of  the  'reality'  you  chaff  me  so  much  about 
and  for  which  I'm  always  searching. 

"To  get  on  about  my  new  friend.  While  Dobbin 
and  I  were  talking  and  laughing  and  the  girl  in 
white  serge  kept  drawing  herself  away  as  if  we  were 
not  the  sort  of  thing  she  had  come  to  Germany  to 


The  Camomile  7 

cultivate,  four  other  new  students  came  into  the 
room.  I  stared  eagerly  at  their  faces.  There  were 
three  American  boys  with  their  hair  brushed  back, 
and  one  very  dark,  untidy  girl  wearing  an  orange- 
colored  silk  blouse.  This  one  too/  I  thought,  'is 
probably  a  genius.  It's  a  pity  she  looks  so  Jewessy.' 
And  just  then  her  eyes  met  mine,  and  I  felt  myself 
giving  her  a  friendly  grin.  Though  she  smiled  quite 
faintly  back,  her  face  lighted  up  as  I'm  sure  only  the 
faces  of  clever  and  sensitive  people  can.  When  she 
came  straight  to  the  chair  in  front  of  me  I  was  as 
pleased  as  if  I  had  been  given  another  birthday 
present.  She  asked  me,  'Is  this  chair  free?' — as  if 
I  should  know  any  more  than  Dobbin  or  the  genteel 
one  on  my  other  side — and  I,  blushing  idiotically, 
said,  'No,  the  charge  is  ten  pfennigs  an  hour!'  while 
Dobbin  giggled  (she's  a  fearful  giggler)  and  the 
genteel  one  stared  coldly  into  the  distance. 

"We  had  not  more  than  two  minutes  to  talk  be- 
fore Dobbin  and  I  were  called  and  my  heart  seemed 
to  stop.  Ruby  did  just  tell  me,  though,  that  she 
was  going  to  play  Rachmaninoff's  Prelude  (the 
hackneyed  one)  as  her  Priifung  piece,  and  I  guessed 
from  that,  rather  to  my  relief,  that  she  knew  the 
ropes  even  less  than  I  did.  Miss  Rory  had  insisted 
on  my  playing  Bach  for  the  Priifung,  but  of  course 


8  The  Camomile 

it  isn't  every  girl  that  goes  to  the  very  Conserva- 
torium  where  her  teacher  studied. 

"Dobbin  and  I  were  marched  into  a  not  very  big 
room  where  the  Direktor  sat  at  a  table  covered  with 
papers,  and  all  the  masters  stood  about  or  leaned 
on  two  grand  pianos  placed  side  by  side.  They  took 
Dobbin  first,  which  gave  me  time  to  look  round, 
though  my  hands  were  cold  and  my  knees  knocking 
together  with  fright.  Knopf  and  Zilcher  I  picked 
out  at  once.  Knopf,  who  is  considered  by  far  the 
best  piano  teacher  in  the  place,  had  been  pointed 
out  to  me  in  the  vestibule  an  hour  before.  He  is  a 
slight,  shabbily  dressed  man  with  a  fair  beard  going 
gray  and  extraordinary  eyes,  bright  blue  and  pierc- 
ing. Zilcher  I  recognized  by  Miss  Rory's  descrip- 
tions. Unlike  Knopf  he  is  well,  almost  foppishly 
dressed — a  dark,  fattish  man  with  a  mustache  and  a 
kind,  indolent  smile.  Miss  Rory  told  me  he  was 
Frau  Schumann's  favorite  pupil,  but  here  they  say 
that  label  is  worn  by  every  one  that  ever  had  a 
couple  of  lessons  from  the  great  Clara. 

"Dobbin  launched  out  into  the  Hummel  Concerto, 
with  Knopf  at  the  other  piano  playing — at  first  very 
carelessly — the  orchestral  part.  Ronald,  I  could 
have  knelt  down  and  kissed  her  ugly  feet!  Her 
touch  is  like  a  man's  for  tone  and  strength,  yet  one 


The  Camomile  9 

feels  that  only  a  child  could  have  such  perfect  sim- 
plicity of  expression.  She  is  of  course  a  prodigy. 

"Miss  Rory  had  warned  me  that  as  a  rule  one 
movement  of  a  Sonata  or  Concerto  was  all  they 
would  hear  at  the  first  Prujung,  but  with  Dobbin 
Knopf  simply  turned  over  page  after  page,  play- 
ing better  and  more  carefully  himself  every  moment. 
When  they  were  finished  no  one  uttered  a  word  of 
praise.  Knopf  got  up,  put  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der, pressing  every  one  of  his  fingers  into  it  (I  caught 
the  look  he  gave  her — such  a  look  out  of  those  sap- 
phire eyes! )  and  said:  'Das  geht,  meine  Kleine.  Du 
bist  zu  mir!'  And  though  it  is  the  rule  for  good 
students  to  choose  their  masters  for  themselves,  not 
a  soul  interfered.  Only  Zilcher  winked  one  of  his 
black,  rogue's  eyes  at  the  Direktor,  who  pretended 
not  to  notice  anything. 

"The  odd  thing  is  that  instead  of  being  made  more 
nervous  by  Dobbin's  performance,  I  lost  at  once 
both  fear  and  hope.  Nervousness  became  an  im- 
possible affectation.  I  knew  I  could  not  compete 
with  Dobbin.  All  I  could  do  was  my  best,  and 
even  if  I  did  my  worst,  those  half  dozen  men  had 
newts'  ears  and  could  judge  pretty  accurately  of 
my  powers.  That,  you  see,  is  why  I  ask  if  genius 
is  Reality.  If  the  girl  in  white  serge  had  played 


io  The  Camomile 

before  me  I'm  certain  I  should  have  been  governed 
by  the  nervous  desire  to  impress  the  masters  beyond 
my  deserts,  to  deceive  them  if  possible  by  doing 
even  better  than  my  best.  But  after  Dobbin  I  no 
longer  wanted  to  aim  above  all  at  being  highly 
thought  of.  I  simply  wanted  to  let  those  musicians 
see  me  as  I  was  so  that  they  might  the  better  judge 
and  help  me. 

"I  played  my  Bach  (Prelude  and  Fugue  in  E 
Major)  neither  very  well  nor  at  all  badly.  They  let 
me  go  on  right  into  the  middle  of  the  Fugue,  when 
the  Direktor  waggled  his  white  beard  and  growled, 
'Genug,  Danke,  Mees  Car -stairs'  and  to  Zilcher  who 
stood  near  him  he  muttered,  as  if  in  a  temper,  the 
cheering  words,  'Es  giebt  eine  ganz  hubsche  Talent, 
auch  Geschmack,'  whereupon  Zilcher  stroked  his 
mustache  and  made  eyes  at  me.  This  meant  that 
I  was  given  leave  to  choose  my  master  and  could 
have  Knopf  if  I  liked.  Naturally  I  was  dying  for 
him,  but  when  he  turned  from  talking  to  Dobbin 
and  looked  at  me,  as  if,  just  to  oblige  me,  he  was 
willing  to  gobble  me  up  without  so  much  as  chew- 
ing me,  something  in  my  Scotch  blood  rebelled. 
Then  and  there  I  forced  myself  to  say  I  wanted 
Zilcher,  and  when  Zilcher  opened  his  eyes  very 
wide  and  wrapped  me  round,  as  it  were,  in  his  warm, 


The  Camomile  11 

cuddling  smile,  I  felt  glad.  It  certainly  looked  as  if 
such  a  thing  had  never  happened  to  Knopf  before, 
and  though  I  don't  for  a  moment  suppose  he  cared, 
the  other  masters  were  clearly  amused.  The  Direk- 
tor's  white  eyebrows. fairly  flew  up  his  bald,  bright 
red  forehead. 

"Afterwards  I  waited  about  in  the  street  for 
Ruby.  Poor  thing,  she  came  out  with  tears  in  her 
eyes  and  looking  very  pale  and  dashed.  They  had 
stopped  her  after  those  three  first  tedious  notes  of 
the  Prelude  and  made  her  play  scales  instead  and 
read  out  some  Mozart,  after  which,  without  offer- 
ing her  a  choice,  they  handed  her  over  to  Zilcher. 
When  I  told  her  about  myself  and  Knopf  she  could 
hardly  believe  her  ears,  and  thought  I  had  made  a 
mistake  which  I  should  regret  later.  Still  when  I 
came  to  explain,  she  understood  better  than  I  had 
myself.  She  thought  it  probably  had  more  to 
do  with  Dobbin  than  I  had  realized.  'It  must  have 
seemed,'  she  said,  'rather  like  offering  yourself  as 
a  concubine  to  one  who  had  just  married  a  true  wife.' 
Don't  you  think  this  was  clever  of  her?  She  lives 
in  London  with  a  crowd  of  sisters  and  a  mother  who 
is  literary  (but  successfully  so,  not  like  ours).  She 
doesn't  much  like  her  home,  which  is  in  West  Hamp- 
stead,  and  I  think  she  rather  envies  me  for  being 


'12  The  Camomile 

a  proper  orphan — also  for  having  a  brother.  Fancy, 
she  has  never  in  her  life  met  a  missionary!  She 
seemed  surprised  when  I  told  her  that  Father  was 
one.  Her  mother  is  a  widow,  but  might  easily  marry 
again,  a  thing  they  all  live  in  dread  of. 

"In  the  end  we  rejoiced  that  we  were  to  have  the 
same  master,  and  planned  how  we  might  share  les- 
sons, as  here  they  always  take  two  pupils  at  a  time 
for  the  Instrumentstunde.  We  went  for  a  walk  to- 
gether right  into  the  country,  talking  hard  all  the 
time  about  ourselves  and  everything,  especially  art. 
We  came  to  a  Milch  Kur  place  and  drank  huge 
glasses  of  special  milk,  and  later  we  found  a  bank 
covered  with  purple  autumn  crocuses — so  lovely! 
We  picked  a  bunch  each,  and  Ruby  thought  she 
could  leave  her  rooms,  which  are  not  very  nice,  and 
come  to  Fraulein  Bruch's  if  it  isn't  full  up.  She 
told  me  that,  though  in  a  schoolgirlish  way  she  had 
been  several  times  gone  on  women  older  than  her- 
self (like  me  with  Miss  Rory),  she  had  never  yet 
had  a  'real,  great  friendship.'  Remembering  Laura 
and  Madge,  of  course  I  couldn't  say  quite  the  same, 
which  a  little  distressed  her.  But  I  do  think  this 
between  me  and  Ruby  is  going  to  be  my  first  sober, 
grown-up  friendship.  It  is  wonderful  how  I  find 
my  vague  ideas  clearing  up  and  changing  into  defi- 


The  Camomile  13 

nite  thoughts  while  I  am  talking  to  her.  I  am  still 
full  of  the  mists  and  fogs  of  the  North.  She  has  the 
pitiless  clearness  of  the  South.  And  even  when  she 
shocks  me  a  little,  I  feel  as  if  it  were  doing  my 
mother's  daughter  good. 

"Now  after  this  long,  exciting  day  I  must  go  to 
bed.  I  have  my  piano  (hired  for  twelve  marks  a 
month)  in  my  bedroom.  My  bed  with  its  high 
puffed-up  Bettdeck  is  like  a  little  snow-covered 
mountain.  How  happy  I  am!  I  am  not  in  the  least 
homesick.  I  know  now  that  in  Glasgow  I  must 
nearly  always  have  felt  homesick — sick  to  get  away 
from  home  to  some  place  where  even  the  beds  are 
different!  Perhaps  this  is  not  quite  so  heartless 
as  it  sounds.  Perhaps  it  comes  from  my  having 
lived  those  first  four  years  of  my  life  in  Constan- 
tinople. Everything  that  is  foreign  I  greet  with 
rapture  like  an  exile  returning  home.  The  more 
foreign  it  is,  the  more  it  seems  to  remind  me  of  some 
golden,  forgotten  time.  You,  Ronald,  are  the  only 
thing  in  Glasgow  that  I  really  miss.  .  .  ." 

Does  this,  I  wonder,  Ruby,  recall  to  you,  as  it 
does  to  me,  that  first  day?  How  young  we  seem, 
looking  back!  I  meant  only  to  send  you  the  parts 
about  yourself,  but  when  I  started  copying  it  out,  it 


14  The  Camomile 

all  seemed  so  remote,  so  dreamlike,  that  I  couldn't 
help  letting  you  have  the  whole.  Perhaps  for  me 
Frankfort  was  never  very  real.  Do  you  ever  feel 
that?  It  was  lovely  of  course  in  its  escape  and 
freedom.  But  wasn't  there  something  a  little  oper- 
atic about  it?  Something  of  La  Boheme  with  the 
tragedy  missed  out?  This  may  not  have  been  so 
for  students  like  Boris  Fabian  and  the  Dobbin 
who  had  so  much  more  than  our  "hiibsche  Talent" 
for  music.  But — though  it  took  us  so  long  to  re- 
alize it  fully — you  and  I  were  both  there  under  false 
pretenses.  You  were  there  because  you  loved  all 
the  arts  and  had  to  escape  from  West  Hampstead; 
I,  because  I  loved  all  the  arts  and  had  to  get  away 
from  Glasgow.  And  though  we  had  both  been  but- 
tered up  by  our  silly  music-teachers  into  the  belief 
that  because  we  had  general  artistic  taste,  music 
was  our  gift,  I  think  we  always  "knew  in  our  souls," 
as  Boris  used  to  say,  that  nothing  comes  of  choos- 
ing an  art;  the  art  must  choose  you.  I  daresay  it 
was  partly  this  that  made  us  such  friends  right  from 
the  beginning. 

Meanwhile  here  we  are,  both  back  in  the  places 
we  worked  so  hard  and  lied  so  stoutly  to  escape  from, 
both  faced  with  the  necessity  of  justifying  our  brief 


The  Camomile  15 

escape  by  giving  music  lessons  for  money.  It  all 
seems  very  strange  to  me. 

Do  you  remember  that  fair-haired,  sentimental 
girl  from  Bristol — I  never  could  remember  her  name 
—who  played  the  fiddle  so  badly,  was  so  terribly 
in  love  with  Knopf,  and  always  cried  at  Solfeggio? 
She  used  to  say  she  longed  to  escape  from  "the 
dreary  realities"  into  "a  world  of  dream  and  fan- 
tasy." My  trouble  is  the  other  way.  I  am  forever 
straining  after  Reality  with  a  capital  R,  and  life 
seems  to  fob  me  off  continually  with  something  per- 
fectly fantastic — like  Aunt  Harry,  for  instance,  like 
Frankfort,  like  Glasgow.  Do  you  find  West  Hamp- 
stead  any  more  real  than  the  Feuerbach  Strasse?  I 
don't  of  course  know  what  reality  is,  but  I  do  hope 
some  day  I  shall.  I  suppose  getting  married  and 
having  children  would  bring  one  face  to  face  with 
it.  But  then  that  may  never  happen  to  me.  Any- 
how, not  for  years  and  years. 

Do  let  me  know  how  your  pupils  get  on.  You 
say  so  little  compared  with  these  screeds  of  mine. 
Yet  I  am  driven  to  write  at  length  to  you.  Instead 
of  so  many  letters  I  may  try  to  keep  some  kind  of 
a  journal  and  send  it  to  you  in  batches.  The  more 
I  think  of  this  the  more  I  believe  it  would  help  me. 


1 6  The  Camomile 

For  one  thing  it  would  act  as  a  safety-valve  and 
might  prevent  other  scribblings.  You  know  my 
fears  in  that  direction.  This  might  direct  my  un- 
lucky inheritance  into  a  safe  channel.  Tell  me  what 
you  think. 

Ever  your  loving  friend, 

ELLEN. 


The  Journal 
/ — Glee  for  Female  Voices 

September  5.  Glasgow  is  like  Frankfort  in  this, 
that  you  can  hardly  go  out  for  ten  minutes  without 
meeting  half  a  dozen  people  you  know.  But  whereas 
in  Frankfort  one's  acquaintance  was  practically  lim- 
ited to  the  students  and  the  masters,  here  it  is  un- 
bounded. There  are,  to  start  with,  the  members 
of  our  congregation,  and  Dr.  Sturrock's  church  is 
both  large  and  well  attended.  Then  there  are  Aunt 
Harry's  friends,  boys  that  were  at  the  Academy  with 
Ronald,  old  men  that  knew  Father,  all  the  girls 
from  my  school,  and  heaps  of  other  people  besides. 
I  am  surprised  when  I  pass  two  dozen  people  in 
the  street  and  don't  know  at  least  one  of  them,  and 
on  getting  into  a  tram-car  the  first  thing  I  do  is  to 
look  round,  see  how  many  of  the  passengers  are 
acquaintances  and  decide  which  one  I  shall  sit  by. 
Because  of  this  I  feel  at  times  almost  incapable  of 
leaving  the  house  at  all,  but  if  I  must  go  out,  I  in- 
vent all  sorts  of  ways  to  avoid  having  to  see  and  to 
be  seen,  or  at  least  spoken  to.  I  stop  and  stare  into 


1 8  The  Camomile 

shop  windows,  find  there's  something  wrong  with  the 
catch  of  my  bag,  bend  to  retie  my  shoe-lace,  or  dodge 
down  a  side  lane.  Even  so,  as  likely  as  not,  some 
one  who  knows  me  too  well  will  come  up  and  regard- 
lessly  waylay  me.  How  splendid  it  must  be  in  Lon- 
don, where  it  is  really  quite  unlikely,  when  you  go 
out,  that  you  will  meet  any  one  you  know!  To 
be  able  to  walk  in  the  crowded  street,  secure  in 
the  knowledge  that  you  need  have  no  companion  but 
your  own  thrilling  thoughts!  I'm  sure  I  should  wel- 
come that,  even  if  just  at  first  I  sometimes  missed 
the  other  from  habit. 

September  lo.  Had  tea  with  Madge  Bruce  to- 
day. Laura  Sterling  was  there  too.  At  such  times 
I  do  realize  quite  sharply  that  I  have  been  three 
years  away.  I  am,  I  think,  as  fond  of  them  both 
as  ever  I  was,  but  what  painful  limitations  there 
are  in  these  intense,  schoolgirl  friendships  that  be- 
gin with  terrific  emotional  enthusiasm!  I  should 
never,  for  instance,  be  able  to  sit  down  and  write 
this  kind  of  journal  to  either  Laura  or  Madge. 
Laura  would  certainly  say  that  my  remark  about 
early  friendships  was  "disloyal."  "Loyalty,"  "Sa- 
cred," "Honor" — these  are  terms  Laura  uses  very 
often,  and  she  looks  very  angry  and  beautiful  with 


The  Camomile  19 

them  on  her  lips.  But  to  me  they  have  come  to 
mean  the  very  negation  of  true  friendship.  I  have 
come  to  prefer  the  words  "honesty,"  "private,"  and 
"decency"  in  their  places,  and  I  don't  care  what 
any  one  says  to  the  contrary,  the  vocabularies  em- 
ployed in  such  matters  mark  a  vital  difference  be- 
tween one  state  of  mind  and  another.  Not  only  "by 
their  fruits,"  but  "by  their  words  ye  shall  know 
them."  With  you  now  I  feel  I  can  both  hear  and 
say  anything  of  genuine  interest.  I  know  we  can 
hurt  one  another  and  have  often  enough  quarreled. 
The  point,  though,  is  that  we  do  not  take  offense 
at  one  another's  hands.  There  are  no  Bluebeard's 
chambers  in  our  talk. 

Whereas  take  Madge.  Almost  all  the  time  I  am 
with  her  I  am  acutely  conscious  of  how  easily,  by 
saying  certain  things  which  I  honestly  feel,  I  could 
at  once  and  forever  wreck  our  friendship.  Like 
so  many  Scotch  people,  Madge  identifies  herself 
with  a  dozen  things  that  are  quite  beside  her  own 
personality.  That  is  to  say,  you  cannot  say  a  word 
in  criticism  of  her  family,  her  house,  her  church, 
her  quarter  of  the  town,  or  even  of  her  town  itself, 
without  her  taking  it  as  a  personal  affront.  This 
means,  for  me  especially,  that  I  must  at  all  cost 
avoid  hundreds  of  topics,  from  the  color  of  her 


2O  The  Camomile 

drawing-room  wall-paper  (salmon  pink,  "watered"!) 
to  the  bad  manners  of  her  eldest  brother  Willie,  in 
case  she  should  fly  into  a  passion  and  declare  that 
she  will  never  speak  to  me  again.  With  Laura  it  is 
different — less  crude,  but  far  more  excruciating— 
because  Laura  for  some  reason  considers  everything 
about  herself  as  Sacred.  While  I  was  in  Germany 
she  got  engaged  to  Wilfred  Dudgeon,  a  Glasgow  boy 
whom  we  have  all  known  as  long  as  we  can  remem- 
ber. But  do  you  think  I  dare  ask  Laura  when  she 
fell  in  love  with  Wilfred  (for  she  always  used  to 
laugh  at  him  cruelly)  or  whether  she  is  in  love  with 
him  at  all?  No.  If  I  did,  there  would  come  about 
a  terrible,  offended  closing  up  of  her  sweet  face  and 
I  should  know  I  was  shut  out  from  her  kindness. 
She  would  not  show  it  like  Madge.  She  would  keep 
up  the  outward  appearance  of  friendship,  and  I 
should  know  that  I  could  always  count  on  her 
"loyalty."  But  the  inside  would  be  gone. 

September  14.  Four  lessons  I  have  given  now, 
and  two  "talks"  to  the  girls  at  Miss  Sutherland's 
School.  And  already  I  begin  to  feel  like  an  old 
hand.  When  the  time  came  I  did  not  feel  nervous 
after  all,  nor  particularly  fraudulent.  I  merely  re- 
alized that  all  set  teaching  of  any  art  (unless  per? 


The  Camomile  21 

haps  by  a  very  few  individuals  born  with  the  rare 
genius  for  imparting)  is  in  the  nature  of  things 
bound  to  be  three  parts  fraud.  One  comforts  oneself, 
therefore,  by  the  reflection  that  where  there  is  no 
choice  one  must  make  the  best  of  it.  Later  on 
some  entirely  new  way  of  teaching  may  be  discov- 
ered, though  I  don't  see  how.  For  the  present  let 
us  at  least  not  deceive  ourselves,  but  rather  other 
people  (our  pupils  and  their  parents)  if  we  can!  I 
tell  you,  Ruby,  this  has  thrown  a  perfect  flood  of 
light  over  my  own  pupilage!  Tricks  of  Miss  Rory's, 
tricks  of  Zilcher's — I  have  found  myself  trying 
them,  each  one,  so  far  as  in  me  lies,  on  my  pupils, 
found  myself  noting  the  invariable  results.  Broadly 
speaking,  the  art  of  teaching  music  is  identical  with 
the  art  of  seduction.  Get  your  pupil  to  fall  in  love 
with  you.  Your  pupil  will  then  work  hard,  trembling 
before  your  wrath,  enraptured  by  your  least  good 
word,  and  the  odds  are  that  considerable  advance- 
ment will  be  made.  This,  with  a  little  simple  tech- 
nical direction,  and  of  course  demonstration,  is  all 
the  teacher's  business.  No  wonder  my  dear  Zilcher 
was  fat. 

Do  make  haste  to  get  pupils  and  tell  me  if  you 
have  a  similar  experience.  You  seem  these  days  to 
think  of  nothing  but  drawing,  but  as  you  say  your- 


22  The  Camomile 

self,  before  you  can  attend  that  School  of  Art  you 
will  have  to  earn  the  money  for  your  fees,  and  how 
else  are  you  to  get  it  but  by  teaching? 

For  my  "talks"  I  have  begun  with  some  dance 
rhythms — the  Waltz,  the  Mazurka,  the  Minuet,  and 
so  forth — giving  classical  illustrations.  I  don't 
know  if  this  is  what  Miss  Sutherland  wants.  The 
girls  certainly  love  it.  And  their  ignorance,  for 
people  who  have  had  hundreds  of  expensive  piano 
lessons,  is  beyond  belief.  They  have  been  taught 
to  play  "pieces."  Of  musical  forms  they  have  not 
the  most  rudimentary  knowledge.  Here  is  some- 
thing that  can  without  deception  be  taught. 

September  24.  Laura  interrupted  my  journaliz- 
ing this  afternoon  by  coming  in  to  consult  me  about 
my  dress  for  her  wedding.  I  am  to  be  her  chief 
bridesmaid  and  have  not  decided  on  the  color  I 
want,  but  as  she  is  not  to  be  married  till  February 
I  can't  see  what  the  hurry  is.  While  we  talked  I 
kept  feeling  that  perhaps  I  had  given  you  an  un- 
just idea  of  her  by  not  telling  you  a  lot  more.  She 
is  very,  very  interesting,  beautiful  too,  you  must 
remember,  and  in  spite  of  that  spiritual  touchiness 
of  hers  it  is  impossible  not  to  love  her  if  you  know 
her  well.  Many  people — Mungo  Fleming,  for  in- 


The  Camomile  23 

stance — find  her  cold  and  not  specially  lovable,  but 
she  and  I  have  been  friends  since  I  was  ten  and 
she  eleven.  It  is  eight  years  now  since  Mr.  Sterling 
got  into  dreadful  business  trouble  and  died  very 
suddenly.  All  Glasgow  knows  the  truth,  but  to  this 
day  the  Sterlings  keep  up  the  fiction  that  their  fa- 
ther's "heart-failure"  was  not  self-induced.  I'm  not 
sure  but  that  the  younger  girls  are  really  ignorant  of 
the  whole  thing.  Laura  certainly  knows  that  I  know, 
that  her  father's  partner,  old  Mr.  Dudgeon,  knows, 
and  perhaps  one  or  two  other  people;  and  this,  with 
her  own  knowledge,  has  cast  a  shadow  over  her  life 
since  she  was  fifteen.  But  the  mere  idea  of  her 
sacred  family  affairs  being  public  property  (as  of 
course  they  are)  is  so  intolerable  to  her  that  she 
has,  I  honestly  believe,  persuaded  herself  that  her 
secret  is  safe. 

Laura  is  the  eldest  of  five,  all  girls,  and  all  golden- 
haired,  milky-skinned  and  very  handsome.  When 
I  first  knew  them  they  lived  in  a  great  house  over- 
looking the  Park,  did  everything  in  fine  style,  and 
were  envied  by  the  rest  of  us  at  school  because  they 
went  riding,  had  French  governesses  and  used  to 
go  to  places  like  Brittany  for  their  holidays.  The 
night  Mr.  Sterling  killed  himself  (he  was  a  jolly, 
hearty  sort  of  man,  quite  different  from  his  silly 


24  The  Camomile 

little  fretful  wife)  I  was  sleeping  at  their  house 
after  a  big  children's  party  where  we  had  a  con- 
juror, a  magic-lantern  and  the  most  scrumptious 
supper.  Early  in  the  morning  Mrs.  Sterling  rushed 
into  our  bedroom  in  a  fearful  state,  woke  us  up 
and  told  Laura  that  her  father  was  dead.  Laura 
went  with  her,  and  I  waited  where  I  was  for  what 
seemed  several  hours.  (It  certainly  must  have  been 
a  good  while,  for  in  it  they  had  got  the  doctor  and 
done  all  kinds  of  things.)  When  at  last  Laura  did 
come  back  she  told  me  rather  coldly  (it  was  not  till 
some  weeks  afterwards  that  she  broke  down  and 
confided  in  me)  that  her  father's  heart,  never  strong, 
must  have  given  way  suddenly  after  the  way  he 
had  jumped  about,  pretending  to  be  a  grizzly  bear 
to  please  the  smaller  children  at  the  party.  I  would 
have  done  anything  to  help  or  comfort  her,  but  she 
absolutely  repulsed  my  affection.  The  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  get  into  my  clothes  and  run  home  as 
fast  as  I  could.  I  remember  I  was  dreadfully 
hungry. 

The  next  afternoon  Ronald  came  back  from  school 
and  said  the  boys  were  all  talking  of  Mr.  Sterling's 
suicide  and  of  how  he  had  left  the  firm  of  Dudgeon, 
Sterling  &  Maclnnes  in  an  awful  hole,  the  way  he 
had  been  carrying  on  for  years  past.  At  my  school 


The  Camomile  25 

there  hadn't  been  a  word  of  this,  but  Wilfred  Dud- 
geon had  blabbed  to  another  boy  in  the  Sixth  Latin 
who  had  a  brother  in  Ronald's  class.  It  wasn't  of 
course  in  the  papers,  for  there  are  no  coroner's  in- 
quests in  Scotland,  and  the  whole  thing,  Ronald 
said,  would  probably  be  hushed  up  by  old  Dudgeon 
with  his  well-known  fervor  for  Christian  work. 
(Mr.  Dudgeon  was  a  leading  elder  in  our  church, 
and  a  very  rich  man.)  And  people,  Ronald  said, 
will  always  forgive  a  man  and  help  his  family,  no 
matter  what  he  has  done,  if  he  has  paid  the  utmost 
penalty  like  that,  of  his  own  free  will. 

When  I  remember  what  a  little  idiot  I  was  over 
that  business  it  makes  me  laugh  and  feel  hot  at 
the  same  time.  Think  what  I  did,  Ruby!  In  spite 
of  the  boys  at  the  Academy,  I  was  so  impressed  by 
the  way  Laura  had  deceived  me  that  I  got  it  into 
my  head  old  Mr.  Dudgeon  might  be  deceived  too. 
Then,  if  he  knew  only  of  the  business  disgrace  and 
not  of  the  suicide,  he  might  not  be  kind  to  the  Ster- 
lings after  all.  I  lay  awake  a  whole  night  thinking 
it  over  and  next  day  I  went  to  Mr.  Dudgeon's  office 
to  make  sure  that  he  knew! 

Of  course  it  was  a  fiasco.  To  begin  with  Mr. 
Dudgeon  is  one  of  those  pompous  Christians  with 
whom  I  defy  any  one  to  be  quite  human  and  natu- 


26  The  Camomile 

ral  except  by  committing  homicide  without  delay. 
When  he  meets  Aunt  Harry  he  asks  in  mellifluous 
tones,  "And  how  goes  the  work?"  And  when  he 
meets  me  he  asks,  smiling  very  sweetly  and  falsely, 
"And  how  is  your  dear  Aunt?"  That  afternoon  at 
his  office,  when  I  said  I  was  Laura  Sterling's  great- 
est friend,  and  wasn't  it  fearfully  sad  that  Mr. 
Sterling  had  killed  himself  and  left  them  all  penni- 
less, he  simply  cleared  his  throat  and  said  he  had 
heard  certain  rumors  that  were  current,  that  cer- 
tainly the  death  of  so  worthy  a  man  as  his  late 
partner  was  "a  sad  business,  a  very  sad  business," 
but  that  his  advice  to  kindly  disposed  young  ladies 
like  myself  was  not  to  put  too  much  faith  in  idle 
gossip.  The  only  sign  that  he  was  in  the  least 
upset  was  that  when  he  said  good-by  he  repeated 
the  question  of  his  greeting,  "And  how  is  your  dear 
•  Aunt?"  instead  of  asking  as  he  usually  does  at  part- 
ing, "And  how  is  that  brave,  good,  clever  brother  of 
yours?"  Ronald  in  spite  of  his  crutches  once 
thrashed  the  younger  Dudgeon  boy  Bertie,  who  used 
to  waylay  and  bully  little  boys  of  the  Lower  School; 
and  I  always  feel  there  is  a  trace  of  spite  in  the 
way  old  Mr.  Dudgeon  always  will  insist  on  Ronald's 
lameness  every  time  he  mentions  him.  When  I  told 


The  Camomile  27 

Ronald  about  my  call  later,  he  laughed  till  I  thought 
he  would  be  sick.  He  did  not  think  any  one  could 
have  been  so  silly  as  not  to  see  that,  quite  apart 
from  good  feeling,  Mr.  Dudgeon  had  no  choice  but 
to  save  his  firm's  reputation,  which  meant  that  he 
must  not  only  make  good  all  losses  to  his  clients, 
but  pension  the  Sterling  family  as  well.  "To  think 
of  you,"  he  said,  "going  to  point  out  his  Christian 
duty  to  that  creeping  Jesus!"  I  saw  it  all  then,  and 
what  a  fool  I  had  been.  And  for  this  reason  I  did 
not  think  it  would  be  fair  to  tell  Ronald  that  on 
my  way  downstairs  from  Mr.  Dudgeon's  office  I  had 
met  Aunt  Harry  going  up  on  the  same  errand! 

After  that  the  Sterlings  moved  into  a  flat  and 
changed  their  whole  way  of  living,  but  the  girls  did 
not  have  to  go  to  a  Board  school  as  Laura  at  first 
had  said  they  would.  I  remember  once  when  Mr. 
Dudgeon's  name  was  mentioned,  she  said  to  me, 
looking  like  a  fairy  queen  in  a  tragedy,  that  what- 
ever her  family  might  do,  she  could  accept  no  favors 
"at  the  hands  of  a  man  her  father  had  cheated!" 
This  of  course  was  after  she  had  told  me  the  truth 
about  Mr.  Sterling.  What  always  seemed  to  me 
strange  and  ugly  in  her  was  the  way  she  dwelt  on 
the  disgrace  and  hardly  seemed  to  think-  what 


28  The  Camomile 

agonies  her  father  must  have  endured  before  he 
could  have  come  to  such  a  pass.  For  he  too  was  an 
elder  in  our  church  and  a  great  philanthropist. 

October  2.  I  have  a  room!  A  room  all  to  myself 
and  away  from  home!  It  was  originally  Ronald's 
idea.  I  made  it  my  own  fast  enough,  you  may  be 
sure,  but  I'll  never  forget  I  owe  it  to  him. 

At  home  it  is  impossible  to  think  in  peace,  much 
less  to  practise.  It's  true  that  after  several  disgust- 
ing rows  I  can  now  count  on  holding  the  drawing- 
room  for  the  few  pupils  who  prefer  to  come  to  me 
for  their  lessons.  But  no  sooner  do  I  begin  to  prac- 
tise or  read  or  write  than  I  am  sure  to  be  inter- 
rupted. 

Scene.  Last  Saturday.  ItisllJo.  Ellen  is  play- 
ing scales  in  thirds,  sixths  and  tenths,  and  has  just 
got  to  A  flat  minor  in  sixths.  Enter  Aunt  Harry 
(always  knocking  first,  which  is  enough  to  drive 
Ellen  mad  to  start  with) .  Ellen  goes  on  playing  and 
stares  angrily  at  her.  Aunt  Harry  looks  distressed, 
apologetic,  but  as  obstinate  as  the  devil. 

Ellen.  Yes?  (She  begins  A  flat  minor  in  tenths, 
increasing  the  pace  and  playing  fortissimo.  Up  go 
Aunt  Harry's  hands  to  her  ears.) 


The  Camomile  29 

Aunt  Harry.  Couldn't  you  stop  just  one  moment? 
I  don't  want  to  disturb  you,  but — 

Ellen  (stopping  dead).    Well,  what  is  it? 

Aunt  Harry.  The  celery  has  been  forgotten,  and 
I  thought  a  little  fresh  air  would  do  you  good.  You 
know  how  fond  your  brother  is  of  celery  with  his 
cold  meat  on  Sunday.  (This  after  Ellen  had  already 
done  all  the  Saturday  shopping  at  9.3o  on  her  way 
to  a  lesson.  Of  course  it  was  stupid  of  her  not  td 
have  noticed  there  was  no  celery  on  the  list.  Ellen's 
brother  does  love  celery.  Still — ) 

Ellen.  Well,  why  can't  Eliza  go,  or  Nelly?  I'm 
working. 

Aunt  Harry.  Nelly  is  doing  the  steps  for  Sunday, 
and  Eliza  has  that  frozen  feeling  on  the  top  of  her 
head.  If  you  had  been  playing,  dear,  I  shouldn't 
have  thought  of  troubling  you.  But  as  it  was  only 
scales  .  .  . 

Ellen.  Go  away  now  and  I'll  get  the  celery  in  half 
an  hour.  (She  begins  to  play  C  major  pianissimo  in 
octaves.) 

Aunt  Harry.  McGillvray's  was  all  gone  last  Sat- 
urday by  twelve  o'clock  and  I  didn't  want  you  to  go 
to  Barnet's.  The  second  eldest  Barnet  girl  was  so 
rude  to  me  that  time  I  took  back  the  basket  of  straw- 
berries that  were  bad  underneath.  She  said  . 


30  The  Camomile 

Things  are  even  worse  if  I  am  not  practising. 

"Still  reading?"  she  will  say  in  a  pained  voice. 
"Just  your  poor  mother  over  again."  And  she  will 
sit  down  on  the  very  edge  of  the  sofa  to  tell  me  the 
latest  difficulty  with  Nelly,  or  how  irritating  is  Eliza's 
new  habit  of  whistling  into  her  thimble  while  she  is 
being  given  orders,  and  do  I  think  she  ought  to  be 
spoken  to  about  it?  It  wouldn't  seem  so  bad  if 
Aunt  Harry  would  throw  herself  comfortably  back 
on  the  sofa.  I  suppose  her  sitting  so  uncomfortably 
on  the  edge  is  intended  to  convey  that  she  isn't  really 
interrupting  me  at  all. 

One  day  she  found  me  scribbling  away  like  a 
steam  engine  at  this  journal.  Though  she  tried  not 
to  show  it,  I  saw  horror  in  her  face. 

"What  are  you  so  busy  with  now?"  she  asked,  at- 
tempting to  smile. 

"A  letter  to  my  friend,  Ruby  Marcus." 

She  looked  suspiciously  at  the  big  ruled  MS. 
sheets  that  I  was  using — as  you  know,  I  seize  on 
whatever  kind  of  paper  comes  handiest  at  the  mo- 
ment. 

"So  long  as  that  is  all,  I  have  nothing,  of  course, 
to  say,"  she  said,  but  in  the  voice  of  an  unbeliever. 
And  then  almost  at  once  she  began  in  a  roundabout 
way  talking  of  Mother  and  of  Ronald's  lameness. 


The  Cam&mile  3? 

As  if  I  didn't  think  often  and  bitterly  enough  of 
these  things  myself.  But  I  simply  pretended  not 
to  know  what  she  was  driving  at. 

Of  course  there's  my  bedroom.  But  it  is  such 
a  small  room  mostly  filled  up  by  the  bed  and  the 
enormous  walnut  suite  which  belonged  to  the  spare 
room  when  we  had  a  bigger  house,  that  I  can  hardly 
write  there  unless  I'm  actually  in  bed.  I  do  my 
secret  sewing  there  (trimming  hats  and  things  I 
don't  want  Aunt  Harry  to  see),  but  even  so  she 
often  noses  me  out,  and  anyhow  I  can't  practise  ex- 
cept in  the  drawing-room. 

So,  my  girl,  for  one-and-sixpence  a  week  I  have 
rented  a  back  bedroom,  minus  the  bed,  in  Miss 
Sprunt's  house,  which  is  off  the  Byres  Road,  about 
ten  minutes'  walk  downhill  from  here!  Miss  Sprunt 
used  to  teach  Ronald  and  me  music  when  we  were 
quite  small.  (Oh,  those  music  lessons — "Good  boys 
deserve  fine  apples"  for  the  lines  in  the  bass  clef, 
"Ellen  goes  by  Dan's  field"  for  the  treble,  and  as 
I  never  knew  anybody  called  Dan,  I  never  could 
see  why  I  should  go  by  his  field.)  Poor  Miss  Sprunt 
has  to  support  a  terrible  old  mother,  and  she  has  a 
brother  that  drinks,  which  is  the  reason  Aunt  Harry 
sent  us  to  her  and  has  gone  on  taking  an  interest 
in  her  all  these  years.  She  still  takes  in  cheap  pupils. 


32  The  Camomile 

The  outside  of  her  house  is  depressing;  the  inside, 
without  being  actually  dirty,  is  frowsty  and  poor. 

Not  an  ideal  place  for  a  studio,  you  say!  Yet 
I  fly  there  as  I  imagine  a  lover  might  fly  to  his 
mistress,  or  anyhow  as  I  should  like  my  lover,  if 
I  had  one,  to  fly  to  me.  To  think  that  no  one  else 
has  the  right  to  enter  without  my  permission!  I 
have  hired  a  cottage  piano  and  taken  across  a  lot 
of  music  and  some  books.  I  find  I  can  use  the  wash- 
stand  quite  well  as  a  desk  (Miss  Sprunt  was  delighted 
when  I  asked  her  to  take  away  the  carpet  and  the 
crockery  with  the  bed),  but  I  am  making  it  a  rule 
that  I  must  not  even  begin  to  write  there  before  I 
have  done  at  least  one  hour  of  practice.  It  would  be 
giand  if  I  could  start  right  off  to  distemper  the  ter- 
ribly floral  walls  and  get  the  place  to  look  work- 
manlike, but  I'm  resisting  that  temptation.  I  ought, 
don't  you  think,  to  have  the  strength  of  mind  to 
work  in  any  surroundings  so  long  as  I  am  free  from 
interruptions?  Let  the  frills  come  later. 

The  very  first  morning  there  (after  practising, 
with  an  effort! )  I  started  writing  a  four-act  play.  I 
have  such  a  strange  exciting  theme  which  I  must 
not  speak  about  yet  or  some  of  my  interest  might 
evaporate.  I'll  just  tell  you  this  much.  The  title 
is  "Influence,"  and  it  is  a  tragedy. 


The  Camomile  33 

October  8.  You  say  Madge  and  Laura  cannot  be 
"real,  great  friends"  of  mine  after  all.  But  I  think 
they  are.  You  see,  for  one  thing  they  can  say 
anything  whatever  to  me,  and  they  do,  I  can  tell 
you.  Besides,  I  am  really  fond  of  them  both,  though 
I  may  have  none  of  Laura's  loyalty.  It  is  true  that 
between  you  and  me  things  have  been  different  from 
the  first.  Perhaps  this  was  because  we  met  away 
from  our  homes.  Then  we  are  both  fairly  detached 
from  our  families  and  desperately,  critically  inter- 
ested in  ourselves,  so  much  so  that  we  are  glad  to 
discover  even  the  more  disagreeable  things.  Our 
cards  are  always  on  the  table.  That  is  why  such 
a  journal  as  this  is  possible  between  us.  Already, 
though  I  have  scarcely  got  well  started  on  it,  I  be- 
gin to  see  how  much  it  is  going  to  mean  to  me  in 
my  life  here.  You  know  my  dread  of  any  literary 
tendency  in  myself.  When  I  think  of  Mother  and 
of  her  writings  that  she  spent  so  much  money  on 
publishing,  I  feel  a  horror  of  all  that  is  vague,  mys- 
terious, or  even  imaginative.  It  is  this,  I  believe, 
that  makes  me  long  so  ardently  for  what  I  call  re- 
ality. I  want  to  get  a  grip  of  things  and  never  to 
lose  it  (as  she  did,  poor  darling!)  for  shadows, 
however  exciting.  To  do  this  I  must  keep  my  eyes 
fixed  on  life  itself,  most  of  all  on  the  life  that  is 


34  The  Camomile 

going  on  immediately  around  me.  Then,  if  I  must 
write,  I  shall  at  least  be  writing  of  what  I  tangibly 
know.  And  here  is  where  I  think  this  journal  will 
help  me.  It  will  pin  me  down.  Now  that  I  come 
to  think  it  over,  I  daresay  it  was  this  same  fear 
and  desire  that  made  me  fight  so  hard  to  get  away 
and  study  music  seriously.  The  sheer  technical  ne- 
cessity of  practising  the  piano  seemed  a  way  of  safety 
for  me.  There  was  of  course  Miss  Rory's  flattery 
besides  egging  me  on,  and  there  was  my  adoration 
of  her.  She  was  the  first  really  elegant  woman  I 
had  ever  known,  and  from  the  first  lesson  I  had 
from  her,  when  I  was  thirteen,  she  made  a  pet  of  me. 
What  was  perhaps  even  more,  she  was  the  first  per- 
son except  Miss  Hepburn,  my  English  teacher  at 
school,  whom  I  had  ever  heard  talking  seriously  of 
art.  How  that  went  to  my  head!  What  a  revela- 
tion of  the  whole  of  life!  I  now  think  Miss  Rory 
was  positively  naughty  (in  the  Shakespearean  sense 
of  the  word)  to  overpraise  me  as  she  did,  and  so 
easily  to  mistake  general  artistic  enthusiasm  in  me 
for  the  very  particular  talent  of  music.  Especially 
when  she  must  have  seen  how  madly  I  was  in  love 
with  her.  But  after  all  it  is  silly  to  blame  her.  She 
made  me  work  hard  and  got  me  those  three  blessed 
years  of  freedom  and  study,  and  you.  Yes.  I  for- 


The  Camomile  35 

give  her.     But  for  her,  Ellen  Carstairs  and  Ruby 
Marcus  would  never  have  met! 

October  13.  Two  more  pupils  roped  in  this  week. 
One  is  a  boy  of  twelve  and  really  musical — anyhow, 
ten  times  more  musical  by  nature  than  his  teacher, 
but  unfortunately  he  is  also  clever  at  school  and 
has  hardly  any  time  to  spare.  Here  is  where  a  girl 
like  Dobbin  scored  so  enormously.  Music  apart, 
life  itself  was  her  only  subject  for  study.  What  does 
a  musician  want  anyway  with  education  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense?  My  other  new  pupil  is  Sheila  Dudgeon, 
who  wants  a  course  of  "finishing  lessons."  The  only 
difficulty  about  her  "finishing"  is  that  she  has  omit- 
ted the  formality  of  beginning.  This  I  told  her  dur- 
ing her  first  lesson  in  the  best  approved  Knopf  man- 
ner, also  that  her  performance  of  Binding's  Friih- 
lingsrauschen  was  less  like  the  rustle  of  spring  than 
like  pigs  competing  at  a  trough  of  mash.  She  was 
a  little  bit  offended,  but  I  assure  you  much  more 
impressed.  She  is  a  big  fat  girl  of  seventeen  with 
an  exquisite  complexion,  but  has  white  eyelashes 
and  is  rather  like  a  young  and  pretty  pig,  which  sug- 
gested to  me  the  above  figure. 

This  means  that,  not  counting  Miss  Sutherland's 
school,  I  am  now  giving  eight  lessons  a  week,  i.e., 


36  The  Camomile 

earning  two  guineas  weekly  from  private  pupils.  It 
certainly  looks  as  if  I  should  get  as  much  teaching 
as  I  want  and  possibly  a  good  deal  more.  At  my 
own  old  school  they  have  put  my  card  up  on  the 
notice  board,  so  very  likely  I  shall  get  children  from 
there.  In  this  connection  a  queer  thing  happened 
the  other  day.  Miss  Hepburn  (I  think  I  told  you 
she  was  my  old  English  teacher?)  tore  the  card  down 
and  threw  it  on  the  fire,  declaring  in  one  of  her 
sudden,  scarlet  rages,  "Ellen  Carstairs  has  no  busi- 
ness with  such  genteel  truck  as  pianoforte  instruc- 
tion!" Poor  Miss  Hepburn  is  tone  deaf  except  to 
the  beauty  of  words,  for  which  she  has  a  most  acute 
ear.  I  once  took  her  to  a  concert  and  she  left  after 
one  item  of  what  she  called  "that  pretentious  and 
expensive  noise."  The  worst  of  it  is,  I  hear  that 
this  silly  action  of  hers  over  my  card  has  brought  her 
own  affairs  at  school  to  a  head,  so  that  she  has  been 
asked  to  resign  at  the  end  of  the  term.  For  the 
last  year  her  temper  has  been  getting  more  and  more 
uncertain,  and  girls  have  been  complaining  at  home. 
One  thing  is  sure.  They  may  get  a  saner,  but  they 
will  never  get  a  more  inspiring  teacher  of  literature 
in  her  place.  I  must  ask  her  to  come  one  day  and 
have  tea  in  my  Room,  though  probably,  now  that 
she  has  this  grudge  against  me,  she  will  refuse.  You 


The  Camomile  37 

see  when  I  was  in  her  class  she  thought  I  was  a 
genius,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that  I  was  to  be 
a  famous  writer!  I  expect  she  will  disapprove 
strongly  when  she  hears  that  I  am  going  to  play 
Kate  Hardcastle  in  some  scenes  from  "She  Stoops 
to  Conquer"  that  we  are  having  for  the  next  Social 
at  school.  This  will  be  on  breaking-up  day  before 
the  Christmas  holidays.  You  will  have  to  advise  me, 
Ruby,  about  my  dress.  Perhaps  you  could  get  me 
something  on  hire  in  London?  Till  the  rehearsals 
are  well  under  way  I  shall  not  say  a  word  to  Aunt 
Harry.  Her  disapproval  will  outdo  Miss  Hepburn's, 
though  for  widely  different  reasons. 

October  16.    What  do  you  think  of  this  for  a 
quotation — not,  alas!  from  my  play? — 

"There  sounds  the  trumpet  of  a  soul  drowned  deep 
In  the  unfathomable  seas  of  sorrow.  ..." 

The  idea  of  a  trumpet,  loudest  and  most  rousing 
of  instruments,  speaking,  but  with  its  note  made 
faint  by  the  intervening  waters  of  sorrow!  This 
sends  a  shiver  of  appreciative  ecstasy  down  my  spine. 
I  went  down  to  the  Mitchell  Library  to  read,  started 
on  some  Elizabethan  plays,  and  came  on  this  in 


38  The  Camomile 

one  of  them.  Queerly  enough  it  made  me  think  of 
poor  Miss  Hepburn,  both  of  her  voice  and  of  her 
eyes.  She  has  hazel  eyes  with  long,  black  lashes, 
and  in  the  light-colored  irises  there  are  dark  specks 
that  used  always  to  make  me  think  of  shipwrecked 
men  drowning.  When  she  speaks,  something  in  her 
deep  voice  seems  to  be  signaling  to  you  through  an 
ocean  of  anguish. 

October  24.  The  last  time  I  "grieved"  Aunt 
Harry  was  yesterday — twice.  First,  I  told  her 
there  was  "too  much  of  man"  in  our  family  wor- 
ship, which  might,  I  said,  be  the  reason  why  Eliza 
so  often  made  thin  excuses  to  stay  away,  Eliza  be- 
ing a  notorious  man-hater.  I  should  explain  that 
"too  much  of  man"  is  a  favorite  complaint  of  Aunt 
Harry's  when  she  hears  a  sermon  or  a  prayer  that 
is  not  evangelical  enough.  So  she  was  greatly  put 
out  by  my  use  of  the  phrase  against  herself.  She 
was  rather  puzzled  than  comforted  when  I  went 
on  to  beg  her  pardon,  for  what  I  had  meant  to  say 
was  "too  much  of  woman."  The  fact  is  that  I  am 
driven  nearly  crazy  twice  a  day  by  Aunt  Harry's 
running  commentary  while  reading  the  Bible,  and  by 
her  general  domestic  review  while  we  are  helpless 
on  our  knees.  One  could  put  up  philosophically  with 


The  Camomile  39 

a  chapter  of  Scripture  and  a  decent  prayer  morning 
and  evening.  But  when  it  comes  to  both  being  a 
mere  excuse  for  Aunt  Harry  unloading  herself  on 
the  assembled  household,  I  for  one  can  only  keep 
still  in  my  place  by  uttering  a  steady  flow  of  curses 
in  German  under  my  breath.  Once  or  twice  Ronald 
and  I  have  persuaded  her  to  read  the  prayer  out  of 
a  book  of  prayers  instead  of  making  it  up  in  our 
Presbyterian  fashion.  This,  though,  only  made  mat- 
ters worse,  for  she  couldn't  resist  putting  bits  in, 
altering  a  word  here  and  a  phrase  there,  and  tacking 
a  whole  lot  on  at  the  end,  Ronald  and  I,  of  course, 
always  knowing  exactly  from  the  tone  of  her  voice 
which  were  the  made-up  bits. 

The  second  offense  was  at  supper,  when  Aunt 
Harry  was  telling  us  how  terrible  it  was  that  Mr. 
Somebody-or-Other  "had  been  found  dead  in  Ms  own 
carriage!"  I  could  not  help  saying  it  was  mercy  it 
was  his  own  carriage  and  not  a  common  cab — so 
much  more  comfortable  for  the  poor  gentleman,  let 
alone  the  cabman;  whereupon  Aunt  Harry  came 
down  on  me  for  blasphemy!  What  is  so  wonderful 
is  Aunt  Harry's  placing  of  the  accent  in  telling  a 
story  of  this  kind.  It  is  as  though  we  ought  to 
feel  sad,  not  about  the  death,  but  about  the  car- 
riage, or  perhaps  about  the  extra  tragedy  of  death 


40  The  Camomile 

coming  at  all  to  a  man  who  owns  a  carriage.  I  re- 
member once  she  looked  up  from  reading  something 
in  some  religious  paper,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
told  us  of  a  lady  who  had  died  suddenly — "such  a 
beautiful  creature,  with  all  that  wealth  and  breeding 
could  give  her,  and  translated,  literally  translated  at 
her  own  tea-table!" 

October  3o.  Like  Robinson  Crusoe  (how  I  envy 
him  at  times!)  I  have  been  making  a  list  of  the 
advantages  and  disadvantages  of  my  Room.  Here 
it  is: 


Advantages. 

1.  Latch  key. 

2.  Privacy. 


3.  One    tree    visible    from 

window  if  you  screw 
your  neck. 

4.  Nearness  to  our  house. 


5.  Pleasure    my    presence 
gives  to  Miss  S. 


Disadvantages. 

1.  Chimney   that  smokes 

in  east  wind. 

2.  Cats     (many    outside, 

one — not  a  nice  one 
— inside) . 

3.  Yellow    lace    curtains 

put  up  by  Miss 
Sprunt  out  of  kind- 
ness of  heart. 

4.  Convenience  for  Aunt 

Harry  to  send  round 
messages. 

5.  Miss  S.'s  pleasure  at- 

tested by  her  "com- 
ing in  for  a  chat." 


The  Camomile  41 

6.  A  poor  thing,  but  mine      6.  Miss  S.  never  far  away, 
own. 

7.  Miss  S.'s  mother  never 

far  away. 

8.  Miss  S.'s  brother  never 

far  away. 

9.  Miss  S.'s  pupils  never 

far  away. 

10.  Miss  S.'s  furniture. 

11.  Miss  S.'s  clothes  in  the 

cupboard. 

12.  Cold. 

13.  Carpet  beaters  in  the 

back  green. 

14.  Boy  in  the  lane  with 

an  instrument  giving 
life-like  imitations  of 
cats. 

Don't  you  agree  that  there  must  be  something  radi- 
cally wrong  with  a  civilization,  society,  theory  of  life 
— call  it  what  you  like — in  which  a  hard-working, 
serious  young  woman  like  myself  cannot  obtain, 
without  enormous  difficulty,  expense  or  infliction  of 
pain  on  others,  a  quiet,  clean,  pleasant  room  in  which 
she  can  work,  dream  her  dreams,  write  out  her 
thoughts  and  keep  her  few  treasures  in  peace? 

November  9.  The  green  lamp  is  lit,  the  mahogany 
clock  ticks  on  the  parlor  mantelpiece,  Ronald  is 
doubled  up  over  an  architectural  drawing  that  he 


42  The  Camomile 

wants  to  finish  for  the  office  to-morrow  (I'm  sure 
none  of  the  other  apprentices  take  half  the  trouble 
over  office  jobs  that  he  does,  yet  he  does  more  work 
on  his  own  than  all  the  others  put  together)  and  I, 
writing  my  journal  to  you,  am  equally  intent  and 
peaceful.  Who  would  think  that  a  tornado  had 
swept  through  the  house  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
ago?  Yet  so  it  is.  Aunt  Harry  has  been  gone  ex- 
actly fifteen  minutes  by  the  mahogany  clock.  She 
is  even  now  in  the  Berkeley  Hall  listening  to  her  be- 
loved Tinker  Marley  ("the  tinker  evangelist  from 
Truro"),  but  shortly  before  leaving  home  she  was 
in  a  devil  of  ...  I  mean  a  fury  of  righteous  anger 
with  me. 

This  is  how  it  was. 

This  afternoon,  as  you  might  see  advertised  in 
to-day's  "Glasgow  Herald,"  the  Monthly  Tea-and- 
Prayer  Gathering  was  held  in  our  dining-room  (not 
in  the  drawing-room  because  the  piano  is  not  so 
suitable  as  the  harmonium)  and  was  addressed  by 
our  dear  friend,  Miss  Davida  Jones,  who  has  al- 
ways so  many  interesting  things  to  tell  us  of  work 
in  the  Zenanas.  Last  night  I  was  kept  busy  writing 
post-cards  to  members  of  the  Tea-and-Prayer  Gath- 
ering just  in  case  they  might  not  read  their  "Her- 
alds" closely  enough,  and  this  morning  Aunt  Harry 


The  Camomile  43 

called  on  as  many  of  them  as  she  could,  lest,  I  sup- 
pose, they  should  not  have  noticed  my  post-cards. 
In  Glasgow  we  are  nothing  if  not  thorough. 

As  a  rule  I  play  the  hymns  at  the  Gathering  and 
help  to  hand  round  tea  afterwards,  and  I  take  care 
to  stick  to  the  harmonium  till  tea-time,  because  in 
that  way  I  can  keep  a  book  on  my  knee  and  read 
it  without  giving  offense  while  Davida  or  another 
speaks.  But  to-day  I  was  allowed  to  get  off  even 
this,  so  that  I  might  go  and  hear  Dr.  Sturrock's 
weekly  address  at  4.30.  I  really  and  truly  meant  to 
do  this — Dr.  Sturrock  is  always  interesting,  besides 
I'm  a  bit  in  love  with  him — but  Aunt  Harry's  meet- 
ing begins  at  three  o'clock,  and  as  they  sang  their 
opening  Psalm  (a  Miss  McFie  from  our  church 
dragging  shockingly  on  the  harmonium)  I  was  wash- 
ing woolies  in  the  bathroom.  At  3.30,  never  think- 
ing any  of  the  Gathering  would  leave  the  dining- 
room,  as  tea  was  to  be  served  there,  I  hung  my 
things  on  two  towel  rails  before  the  drawing-room 
fire,  and,  having  a  whole  hour  to  spare,  thought  I 
might  as  well  go  to  my  Room  and  finish  my  first 
attempt  at  typewriting.  (Lately  I  have  had  to  re- 
lax that  rule  about  always  practising  first.) 

You  know  what  mistakes  one  is  always  making  at 
the  beginning  with  a  typewriter.  I  wasted  heaps  of 


44  The  Camomile 

paper,  but  I  gritted  my  teeth  and  wouldn't  stir  till 
the  thing  was  done.  By  that  time  it  was  a  quarter 
to  five,  and  I  had  a  pain  in  my  back,  and  Miss  Sprunt 
offered  me  a  cup  of  tea — all  slopped  over  into  the 
saucer,  of  course — so  I  gave  Dr.  Sturrock  the  go-by. 
After  drinking  my  tea  I  began  to  punctuate  what 
I  had  typed  and  found  a  lot  of  it  wanted  re-writing, 
while  cats  yowled  in  the  back  green  and  one  of  Miss 
Sprunt's  pupils  (the  daughter  of  our  greengrocer) 
made  even  more  distressing  noises  in  the  room  be- 
low. Miss  Sprunt's  teaching  fills  me  with  so  great 
an  amazement  that  it  is  hard  sometimes  to  concen- 
trate on  my  own  business.  This  pupil  began  a  scale, 
ended  quite  casually  on  the  leading  note  and  started 
playing  Handel's  "Largo."  Miss  Sprunt,  having 
thus  got  the  lesson  well  under  way,  went  down  into 
the  basement  on  some  mysterious  errand  to  her 
brother  or  her  mother,  neither  of  whom  ever  appears 
above  ground  on  such  occasions.  She  leaves  the  door 
of  the  pupils'  room  open,  I  suppose  to  give  the  pu- 
pil an  impression  that  wrong  notes  will  be  heard 
below  stairs.  But  I'm  sure  I  was  the  only  person 
in  the  house  that  heard,  after  the  fourth  bar  of  the 
"Largo,"  the  first  bar  of  "The  Lost  Chord."  And 
to  think  that  this  was  my  music  teacher  from  the 
age  of  seven  to  the  age  of  thirteen !  No  wonder  Miss 


The  Camomile  45 

Rory  was  heaven  after  that!  No  wonder  I  was 
deceived!  The  delicious  thing  is  that  I  know  Miss 
Sprunt  loves  me  to  practise  when  one  of  her  pupils 
is  there.  Then  she  can  say  airily:  "Hear  that? 
An  old  pupil  of  mine ! " 

Well,  I  got  home  late  for  six  o'clock  tea,  and  by 
entering  the  parlor  full  of  virtuous  questions  about 
the  Zenana  Gathering  managed  to  stave  off  the  sub- 
ject of  Dr.  Sturrock  all  tea-time.  Ronald  once  be- 
gan asking  me,  but  I  silenced  him  in  German  and 
thought  all  danger  was  past.  I  was  wrong,  though. 
Aunt  Harry  followed  me  to  my  bedroom  afterwards 
to  ask  me  "all  about  it,"  and  when  I  told  her  I  had 
not  gone  she  stamped  with  rage  and  rushed  into  her 
own  bedroom.  I  followed,  persuaded  her  to  unlock 
the  door,  and  was  so  mild  and  regretful  that  pres- 
ently she  melted  from  anger  into  vociferous  grief. 
It  seems  that  some  of  the  Gathering  had  gone  into 
the  drawing-room  before  Aunt  Harry  could  spot  my 
washing  and  hide  it.  "They  must  conclude  so  lit- 
tle sympathy  exists  between  my  niece  and  me," 
she  mourned.  "To  think  that  while  we  sang  the  first 
version  of  the  Hundred-and-Second  Psalm,  you, 
Ellen,  were  washing  your  combinations!" 

I  kissed  and  tried  to  comfort  her  out  of  her  own 
mouth,  saying  what  did  it  matter  what  people 


46  The  Camomile 

thought  so  long  as  God  knew  that  there  was  love 
and  sympathy  between  us.  She  shook  her  head  at 
this,  declaring  that  it  was  all  very  fine,  but  that  we 
must  not  be  the  cause  of  others'  stumbling,  and  must 
avoid  "the  appearance  of  evil,"  otherwise  it  were 
better  that  a  mill-stone  were  hanged  about  our  necks. 
All  the  same  she  cheered  up  quite  considerably  in 
the  end  and  went  off  in  very  fair  spirits  to  hear 
Tinker  Marley.  She  said  she  "would  much  rather 
stay  at  home  after  being  so  sadly  upset,"  but  that 
she  was  doing  it  for  the  good  of  her  own  soul  and 
of  mine.  Poor  Aunt  Harry!  As  if  we  did  not  all 
know  that  she  is  head  over  ears  in  love  with  the 
bright-eyed  Tinker  from  Truro! 

November  lo.  To  make  up  to  Aunt  Harry  for  yes- 
terday, to-day  I  have  been  cutting  out  and  sewing 
knickers  for  her.  They  are  dark  gray,  and  very 
warm  and  strong,  as  she  feels  the  cold  terribly.  I 
wonder  if  she  has  any  idea  how  trying  she  is!  It 
makes  it  all  the  worse  that  I  am  fond  of  her  and 
can  never  forget  how  good  she  has  been  all  those 
years  to  Ronald  and  me.  Soon  I  shall  have  to  tell 
her  about  the  Christmas  play  at  school,  and  there 
will  be  another  scene.  Sometimes  I  feel  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  endure  this  kind  of  life  much  longer. 


The  Camomile  47 

Here  is  a  song  I  thought  of  while  I  was  sewing 
Aunt  Harry's  knickers,  and  afterwards  I  wrote  it 
down,  but  I  don't  know  if  it  is  any  good.  It  is  meant 
to  be  set  to  music — Boris  Fabian's  perhaps? — 

A  GIRL'S  SONG 

There  will  be  golden  dawns 

And  a  woodland  path  to  choose 

Where  my  love  will  bid  me  walk  with  him 

And  I  shall  not  refuse. 

There  will  be  days  of  rain 

Wijth  soft  falling  dews 

When  my  love  will  wrap  me  in  his  coat 

And  I  shall  not  refuse. 

There  will  be  starlit  nights 

Too  sweet  and  dark  to  lose; 

Then  my  love  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth, 

And  I  shall  not  refuse. 

November  14.  I  was  tremendously  interested  in 
your  letter  about  your  mother.  Fancy  your  envying 
me  Aunt  Harry!  I  don't  think  you  realize  how 
difficult  life  with  her  is.  Yet  perhaps  I  understand 
what  you  are  driving  at  when  you  say  my  circum- 
stances are  better  than  yours.  Your  mother,  being 
so  very  modern,  leaves  you  free  to  do  as  you  like, 


48  The  Camomile 

but  just  because  of  this  you  find  it  harder  than  I  do 
to  discover  what  it  is  that  you  like.  Is  this  at  all 
what  you  mean?  You  say  when  I  am  hypocritical 
at  least  I  know  it,  but  that  half  the  time  you  are 
a  humbug  without  intending  it.  I'm  not  so  sure 
about  that.  You  seem  to  me  very  clear-sighted. 
And  of  which  of  us  can  it  be  said  that  there  is  no 
unconscious  bunkum?  I  do  think  there  may  be 
something  in  what  you  say,  that  by  being  made  to 
do  a  certain  number  of  disagreeable  things  one 
learns  more  quickly  and  more  passionately  to  know 
the  things  one  would  be  at.  It  must  certainly  be 
awful  "trying  to  think"  of  what  you  "want  to  do 
next." 

I  have  just  read  your  letter  over  again  (how  inter- 
esting it  is,  and  how  I  love  you  for  writing  it!)  and 
I  am  wondering  if  your  mother  is  not  just  lazy. 
What  you  say  of  her  looking  in  at  your  untidy  bed- 
room, and,  just  because  you  were  rude  to  her,  not 
making  you  tidy  it,  or  even  speaking  to  you  about 
it,  makes  me  think  she  must  be.  But  then  she  is 
beautiful  and  literary  (dread  word!),  and  knows 
heaps  of  interesting  people  (so  many  men  too,  lucky 
Ruby!)  and  she's  your  mother,  not  just  your  fa- 
ther's sister.  I  should  have  thought  there  was  no 
comparison  between  your  living  with  her  and  my 


The  Camomile  49 

living  with  Aunt  Harry.  There  you  are,  though; 
you  are  unhappy  I  can  see  very  well  from  your  let- 
ter. Get  happier  soon.  I  think  your  drawing  is 
the  thing.  Isn't  it  splendid  anyhow  that  we  can 
write  so  freely  to  each  other?  Imagine  my  telling 
Madge  that  her  mother  was  lazyl  Not  that  she  is. 
Gott  bewahr!  Mrs.  Bruce's  solemn  boast,  made  in 
the  tone  of  a  fervent  believer  reciting  her  creed,  is 
"I  really  think,  my  dear  Ellen,  that  I  may  say  you 
could  not  collect  an  egg-spoonful  of  dust  in  my  house. 
I  see  to  it  that  the  very  pan  in  the  servants'  closet 
is  kept  like  a  dinner  plate!" 

November  16.  Trying  to  be  very  straight  with 
myself,  and  asking  myself  if  I  would  rather  have 
your  mother  or  Aunt  Harry,  I  have  decided  in  fa- 
vor of  Aunt  Harry,  though  at  the  same  time  I'm 
not  convinced  that  you  would  choose  her  if  you 
knew  her.  As  usual  you  have  been  cleverer  than  I, 
and  have  seen  the  truth  that  in  spite  of  the  friction 
and  difficulty  one  should  find  a  quicker  road  to  one's 
own  reality  with  her  than  with  a  character  like  your 
mother.  For  one  thing  Aunt  Harry  has  really  strong 
feelings  and  a  noble  idea  of  duty,  so  that,  however 
ridiculous  and  annoying  you  may  find  her,  you  can 
never  despise  her.  For  another  thing,  merely  having 


5O  The  Camomile 

to  oppose  her  forces  a  naturally  lazy  person  like  me 
to  act  with  the  greatest  energy.  (Fighting  your 
mother  must  feel  rather  like  boxing  with  a  feather 
bed.)  Lastly,  as  you  yourself  have  said,  Aunt 
Harry,  without  in  the  least  intending  it,  helps  one 
to  discover  what  one  most  wants.  All  the  same, 
Ruby,  I'm  so  terrified  at  finding  out  what  it  is  I 
want  that  I  hardly  dare  face  it  yet.  Again  and 
again  I  am  driven  on  to  it.  Again  and  again  I  run 
away  from  it  and  try  to  plunge  into  something  else. 
It  would  not  have  mattered  in  my  eyes  if  Mother 
had  merely  messed  up  her  own  life,  or  even  hurt 
every  one  round  her  and  created  a  scandal,  so  long 
as  her  writings  themselves  were  good  or  useful  or 
amusing.  I  believe  I  could  almost  (seeing  how 
perfectly  happy  and  beloved  he  is)  forgive  her  for 
Ronald.  But  when  I  read  those  books  of  hers!  .  .  . 
A  mere  dip  into  one  of  them  puts  me  off  this  journal 
for  a  week  at  a  time  and  sets  me  feverishly  practis- 
ing. Yet  what  am  I  to  do?  I  teach  every  day 
now,  am  busy  in  a  hundred  ways  besides,  and  even 
so  all  I  see  and  think  keeps  forming  itself  in  my 
head  into  words  and  scenes  and  even  sentences 
which  I  simply  have  to  scribble  down.  The  rate  at 
which  I  fill  a  notebook  is  dreadful.  It  is  like  a 
disease,  this  craving  to  write  things  down,  this  terror 


The  Camomile  51 

of  losing  a  thought  by  not  putting  it  at  once  on 
paper.  Only  last  night  I  made  a  bonfire  of  note- 
books and  MSS.  in  the  drawing-room  grate,  and  this 
morning,  there  being  a  strong  east  wind,  when  the 
windows  were  opened  the  charred  bits  of  paper 
started  fluttering  about  the  room  like  a  flock  of 
birds  with  broken  wings.  Eliza  was  furious.  To 
keep  myself  from  crying  while  the  stuff  was  blaz- 
ing up  the  chimney  last  night,  I  practiced  franti- 
cally at  the  Brahms  Intermezzo  in  G  minor.  With 
what  a  soaring,  generous  melody  it  opens!  It  set 
my  grieving  spirit  free  and  gave  my  soul  great  pin- 
ions. But  what  a  state  my  hands  are  in  with  want 
of  practice!  To-day  they  are  aching  badly  after 
half  an  hour  of  Czerny.  I  can  just  see — if  I  shut 
my  eyes — how  dear  old  Zilcher  would  pick  them 
both  up,  frown  at  them,  give  them  each  a  little 
smack,  and  then  wink  at  me  as  if  we  had  kissed  on 
the  sly.  You  know,  though  I  liked  him  so  much 
and  it  was  the  thing  to  do,  I  never  once  let  him 
flirt  seriously  with  me.  At  times  now  I  wish  I  had. 
Nothing  kept  me  from  it  but  my  upbringing,  and 
my  perhaps  silly  determination  to  keep  myself  ab- 
solutely for  "him,"  i.e.,  the  imaginary  lover  to  be. 
My  conscience  had  never  much  to  do  with  it.  I 
didn't  then,  and  don't  now  think  there  would  have 


52  The  Camomile 

been  anything  wrong  in  it.  There  certainly  wouldn't 
have  been  any  humbug.  We  all  knew  exactly  what 
Zilcher  meant,  neither  more  nor  less.  He  was  a 
sweet  man.  Just  to  be  in  the  room  with  him  made 
me  feel  warm  and  happy  and,  oh,  how  feminine! 
And  now  suppose  "he"  never  comes  along!  What 
a  sell  that  would  be!  I  should  in  that  case  regret 
Zilcher  most  piteously.  For  there  are  no  Zilchers 
in  Glasgow.  None,  none!  Why  is  this?  There  is 
a  Dutch  musician  here  who  is  probably  the  best 
piano  master  we  have  (I  sometimes  think  of  taking 
a  dozen  lessons  from  him  to  keep  me  up).  He  is 
quite  attractive,  after  the  style  of  Frohwein  at 
Frankfort,  and  of  course  his  pupils  worship  him. 
But  from  all  I  hear,  and  from  my  own  prolonged 
study  of  his  face,  sitting  near  to  him  in  the  area 
in  St.  Andrew's  Hall  at  last  Tuesday's  orchestral 
concert,  I  fear  that  our  Mr.  Van  Ryssen  has  long 
since  ceased  to  take  toll  of  his  pupils  in  the  ap- 
proved manner.  He  has  been  in  Glasgow  more  than 
ten  years,  and  something  in  the  air  of  the  place 
has  abstracted  from  him  his  beautiful  and  natural 
amorousness. 

November  25.    A  stranger  preached  in  our  church 
this  evening  and  Aunt  Harry  thought  the  sermon 


The  Camomile  53 

"wonderful."  Here  are  three  extracts  from  it  which 
I  took  down  verbatim: 

"A  sleeping  Saviour  is  often  in  the  company  of 
a  stormy  sea." 

"A  trembling  sinner  needs  a  triumphant  Saviour." 

"  'Tis  worth  while  losing  the  mast  to  find  the 
Master." 

Can't  you  see  the  little  man  sitting  in  his  study 
rolling  these  bons  mots  over  with  his  tongue.  But 
can  he  possibly  believe,  think  you,  that  such  tit-bits 
can  in  any  way  help  any  living  soul? 

I  was  reading  about  Danton  the  other  night.  "De 
1'audace,  et  encore  de  1'audace,  et  toujours  de  1'au- 
dace!"  If  only  ministers  would  preach  this  kind  of 
thing!  Most  ministers,  if  they  searched  their  hearts 
and  spoke  the  truth,  would,  I  think,  begin  each  ser- 
mon by  quoting  from  the  blind  man's  placard  on 
the  Kelvin  Bridge — "Dear  friends,  I  am  totally 
blind!"  Then  in  our  churches  we  might  possibly 
get  somewhere. 

December  lo.  All  to-day,  and  yesterday  too,  I 
have  been  laboring  under  an  intense  physical  ex- 
citement for  which  I  can  point  to  no  cause  except 
two  days  of  bright,  very  keen  weather  coming  after 
a  fog.  But  as  I  have  felt  the  very  same  on  dull, 


54  The  Camomile 

muggy  days,  I  don't  believe  the  weather  is  account- 
able. I  said  nothing  of  it  to  Ronald,  but  to-night  he 
told  me,  apropos  of  nothing  in  particular,  that  he 
had  an  attack  of  the  same  kind  and  felt  inclined 
to  juggle  with  the  stars.  He  explains  his  by  his 
lameness  which  prevents  his  dashing  about  when 
he  is  in  good  spirits.  Some  days,  in  March  espe- 
cially, he  says  he  feels  that  with  his  not  being  able 
to  run  and  jump,  the  racing  of  his  blood  will  destroy 
him.  I  told  him  that  no  matter  how  I  tear  about 
at  such  times  the  flame  goes  on  devouring  me  in  an 
almost  painful  rapture,  and  that  I  believe  he  gets 
more  out  of  it  than  I  do  because  he  puts  it  into  his 
work,  whereas  in  my  case  it  merely  exhausts  itself 
and  me  quite  fruitlessly. 

The  stars  are  lovely  to-night.  Ronald  and  I  stood 
on  the  doorstep  looking  at  them  together.  How 
I  love  Ronald! 

He  is  coming  with  his  friend,  Mungo,  to  see  the 
dress  rehearsal  at  school.  I  think  I'm  pretty  well 
word-perfect  now  and  I  love  my  part.  I  told  him 
you  were  choosing  the  dress  and  having  it  sent.  He 
is  almost  as  excited  about  it  as  I  am. 

December  18.  What  extraordinary  weather  for 
the  time  of  year!  Is  it  the  same  in  London?  To- 


The  Camomile  55 

day  was  so  sunny,  so  warm,  so  entirely  beautiful  that 
all  the  time  I  was  not  teaching  I  kept  inventing  dis- 
tant errands  so  that  I  might  be  out  walking. 

I  might  also  call  to-day  "the  day  of  the  Dress." 
The  box  arrived  in  the  morning  when  I  was  out  at 
a  lesson,  and  when  I  came  home,  drunk  with  the 
sunshine  and  the  precious  mildness,  Aunt  Harry  met 
me  with  a  terrible  aspect  and  drew  me  into  my  bed- 
room. She  had  been  tidying  my  room  when  I  was 
out,  a  thing  that  makes  me  wild,  and  had  come  upon 
a  shop  receipt  for  seven-and-sixpence  lying  about 
somewhere.  As  it  happened,  it  was  a  joint  affair 
between  Madge  and  me  when  we  had  been  buying 
things  together,  so  I  explained  and  that  was  all 
right.  The  great  thing  was  she  had  not  found  my 
new  hat,  which  cost  a  guinea!  I  have  never  paid 
so  much  for  one  before,  but  it  is  really  exquisitely 
becoming  (the  milliner  said  she  would  like  to  have 
a  photograph  of  me  in  it  as  an  advertisement  for 
the  new  shop  she  hopes  soon  to  start  in  London!). 
As  I  bought  it  I  vowed  I  should  never  pay  so  much 
for  one  again.  The  milliner  insisted  it  was  dirt 
cheap,  but  I  call  it  a  lot  for  a  mere  hat.  Aunt 
Harry  would  think  it  terrible. 

Naturally  she  had  seen  the  box  with  the  dress  in 
it,  and  I  had  a  sort  of  feeling  that  she  had  undone 


56  The  Camomile 

one  end  and  peeped  at  it.  I  couldn't  be  quite  sure 
of  this  as  it  was  tied  up  fairly  well,  but  I  judged 
it  unsafe  to  say,  as  I  sometimes  do  in  a  like  case, 
that  it  was  something  come  home  from  the  cleaners. 
How  I  longed  to  be  alone  in  the  room!  But  there 
stood  Aunt  Harry  waiting  with  her  hand  on  the  door- 
knob and  such  a  queer,  lovable  expression  on  her 
face,  as  if  she  were  suddenly  begging  quite  hu- 
manly for  my  confidence.  She  had  surprised  me 
some  days  ago  by  taking  the  news  of  the  play  quite 
quietly.  I  think  Ronald  must  have  said  something 
to  her. 

Ruby,  it  is  lovely!  All  those  frills!  And  that 
very  bright  rose  pink!  How  clever  of  you  to  choose 
it!  I  should  never  have  thought  of  that  color  for 
myself  as  even  a  possibility,  yet  for  some  reason  it 
suits  me  marvelously  well.  Ronald  himself  admits 
it,  and  in  such  matters  he  is  hard  to  please.  So 
long  as  Aunt  Harry  was  there  I  only  held  it  up 
under  my  chin  before  the  long  glass  and  said  very 
quietly:  "Not  bad.  What  do  you  think?"  Though 
I  wanted  to  do  high  kicks,  I  showed  no  excitement 
whatsoever.  Aunt  Harry  stroked  it  and  fingered 
it  (I'm  glad  it  is  so  perfectly  fresh  and  the  silk 
such  a  good  quality.  I  was  afraid  it  might  be  a  bit 
tashed)  as  if  she  couldn't  resist  loving  it  with  her 


The  Camomile  57 

"natural  man" — as  indeed  who  could?  With  her 
"new  man"  she  of  course  rejects  it  utterly.  She 
holds  that  it  is  a  very  "loud  shade"  for  me  and  she 
is  trying  hard  to  make  me  promise  that  I'll  wear 
a  chemisette  with  long  transparent  sleeves  under  it. 
The  bodice  is  rather  low,  that  is  for  Glasgow. 

All  afternoon  Aunt  Harry  has  been  thinking  of 
nothing  but  the  dress,  and  going  in  every  now  and 
then  to  have  a  look  at  it  where  I  have  laid  it  on 
the  bed  to  take  the  creases  out.  Sometimes  she  was 
smiling  and  admiring  it,  but  of  tener  she  was  gloomy. 
Twice  she  shed  tears  over  it.  Once  she  said:  "I 
know  I  cannot  expect  Miss  Dodds"  (the  headmis- 
tress at  school)  "to  be  a  Fidelia  Fiske,  but  still . . ." 
This  was  in  connection  with  a  call  she  once  paid  on 
Miss  Dodds  to  ask  why  could  not  the  girls  meet 
and  be  happy,  and  perhaps  read  some  nice,  suitable 
Shakespeare  play  together,  even  taking  parts,  but 
without  all  this  staging  and  dressing  up  and  paint- 
ing of  their  faces?  At  the  time  Aunt  Harry  had 
just  been  reading  the  life  of  Fidelia  Fiske,  and  she 
took  a  copy  to  lend  Miss  Dodds.  Luckily  Miss 
Dodds  has  such  beautiful  manners  that  I  know  she 
must  have  been  quite  sweet  and  patient  with  Aunt 
Harry.  She  would  understand  my  difficult  position. 
But  I  shudder  to  think  of  such  a  call  paid  to,  say, 


58  The  Camomile 

Miss  Rory.  Miss  Rory,  for  all  her  charm,  thought 
it  funny  to  be  rather  rude  to  what  she  called  "Philis- 
tines," especially  if  they  were  elderly  and  if  there 
was  nothing  she  could  get  out  of  them. 

To  begin  with,  Aunt  H.  had  said  she  wanted  to 
come  to  the  performance,  so  I  had  an  invitation  sent 
to  her.  Now  she  has  refused  this  and  says  she  will 
go  to-morrow  instead — that  is,  to  the  dress  rehearsal 
— and  that  she  will  sit  in  a  corner  so  that  no  one 
shall  see  her  face! 

Later.  The  end  of  the  dress  was  that  it  was  cov- 
ered up  with  dust  sheets  so  that  Eliza  might  not 
see  it  (you  bet  Eliza  did,  though!)  and  also  so  that 
Nelly  "might  not  be  led  astray  and  seduced  to  love 
the  theater."  By  the  evening  it  was  safely  out  of 
the  way,  for  we  had  a  rehearsal  at  school  and  I  have 
left  it  there. 

I  wish  I  could  do  some  big  nice  thing  to  make  up 
a  little  to  Aunt  H.  for  the  vexation  I  have  been  to 
her  the  last  few  days.  If  only  it  were  not  so  diffi- 
cult to  please  her  without  being  a  hypocrite!  Not 
that  she  seems  to  mind  my  being  hypocritical  nearly 
so  much  as  she  minds  my  being  natural.  What  a 
pity  that  is! 


The  Camomile  59 

December  2o.  For  once  I  am  going  to  write  in  this 
in  the  morning.  Generally  I  don't  let  myself  touch  it 
till  night.  But  of  late  writing  at  night  has  turned 
my  head  into  a  rookery,  with  ideas  for  the  rooks, 
caw-cawing  by  the  hour,  but  never  getting  any  fur- 
ther and  serving  no  end  but  to  keep  me  hopelessly 
awake  when  I  want  to  sleep. 

After  playing  at  Miss  Sutherland's  school  this 
morning  and  giving  lessons  to  the  very  unmusical 
Lockhart  children,  I  went  to  my  Room  meaning 
to  practise.  But  the  whole  house  smelt  so  fusty 
and  steamy,  with  a  washing  going  on  just  under  my 
window,  that  I  fled. 

Now  I  am  sitting  in  the  Botanic  Gardens.  Though 
the  puddles  are  frozen  in  the  shade,  you  could  sit 
out  for  ever  so  long  in  the  sun  without  feeling  cold. 
I  like  the  Botanic  Gardens  in  the  morning.  No  one 
there  but  children  with  their  nurses,  and  old  men 
with  pale,  dreamy  eyes  thinking  of  nothing,  perhaps 
wondering  vaguely  if  they  will  hold  on  to  see  an- 
other spring.  I  am  on  a  bench  overlooking  the 
Kelvin  and  have  been  watching  the  sea-gulls. 
Whole  flocks  have  come  up  inland  from  the  Clyde. 
There  are  rooks,  too,  very  noisy  and  restless,  de- 
ceived perhaps  by  the  sunshine  into  thinking  the 
winter  is  over.  Sometimes  one  flies  past  me  so  close 


60  The  Camomile 

that  I  can  see  bow  the  sun  glorifies  his  (fathers. 
Can  any  one  ever  have  gone  through  fife  without 
again  and  again  feeling  a  wild  envy  of  creatures 
with  wings?  Think  of  what  flight  must  be  to  a  bird ! 
And  here  are  we,  doomed,  if  we  wish  to  move  from 
place  to  place,  to  plant  one  foot  before  another  in- 
terminably! I  know  it  is  lovely  to  tear  downhill 
on  a  bkyde,  but  even  this  most  be  as  nothing  to 
the  experience  of  floating  and  swooping  on  wings 
that  sprout  from  your  own  shoulders.  Being  on 
one  of  the  new  aeroplanes  (Aunt  Harry  says  they 
are  "of  the  devfl,  devilish")  comes,  I'm  sure,  no- 
wnere  near  it- 
Last  night  was  the  dress  rehearsal  at  school  and 
things  went  fairly  well,  though  they  must  go  better 
to-night.  The  curtain  kept  «sriHri0g  apid  once  I  had 
to  spoil  a  «fa«Jiing  entrance  to  go  and  push  the  rings 
along  with  a  pole.  Why  does  an  audience  always 
laugh  so  much  more  heartily  at  such  an  accident 
than  at  something  funny  in  the  play  itself?  I  sup- 
pose it  must  be  the  sudden  escape  into  unrehearsed 
realities  Would  not  the  most  thrilling  stage  scene 
go  pkxt  if  the  stage  carpenter's  cat  strolled  on  and 
began  to  wash  her  face  beside  the  footlights? 

Anyhow,  there  was  lots  of  spirit  in  the  acting  last 
night  and  we  were  much  applauded  by  all  the 


The  Camomile  61 

youngsters.  Margaret  Staffing,  who  is  Lama%  sec- 
ond sister,  IBS  Im  ned.  out  as  Xony  T.^ai|ii.iii  to  be 
a  real  comic,  and  Jean  MacDiannkL  a  very  kit- 
tenish girl  with  fluffy  hair  who  has  just  left  school, 
makes  a  splendid  f ofl  for  me  as  Miss  Neville-  The 
other  parts  are  taken  by  quite  old  girls  (one  has 
gray  hair,  think  how  awful!)  who  are  experienced 
play  actors,  two  of  diem  being  specially  good  at 
men's  parts.  They  said  I  was  all  right.  Certainly 
I  have  got  over  my  first  self* 

All  yesterday  afternoon  my 
papers.    I  even  gave  two  1>^*»«^  with 
Aunt  Hijinry  fnadff  ""^  wear  a  woolen  hood  over  them 
"for  the  sake  of  the  servants."   When  I 


I  didn't  comb  them  out,  but  only  loosmrd 

SOfiJltly  jjflO  bound  tfc^*>*  JMIIIMS  •'!  In  3.  qH'iy™| 
oolored  ribbon.  You  should  have  seen  the  masys 
of  bobhry  corkscrews  that  came  att  round  just  to 
my  shoulders  fike  the  pictures  of  Xefl  Gwynn.  At 
yh"*J  they  thoug^it  I  was  wearing  a  wjg!  Aunt 
Barry  cried  when  she  saw  me,  she  said  I  looked  ""so 
dreadfully  hgtyL"  There  was  no  doubt  that  when 
my  hail  was  OJQ**^  ^mf  my  cheeks  roused,  the  pink. 


used  to  say  of  us  on  the  few  orryanns  we  got  into 
dress.    I  wore  a  large  pink  rose  in 


62  The  Camomile 

bodice  (which  is  just  a  wee  bit  tight  round  the 
ribs)  and  in  spite  of  the  chemisette  which  I  put  in 
to  please  Aunt  H.  the  tout  ensemble  was  greatly 
admired. 

The  dress  rehearsal  was  really  a  performance  for 
the  children  who  are  still  at  school,  and  they  did 
some  recitations  and  bits  out  of  plays  themselves 
and  danced  later.  Aunt  H.  stayed  away  after  all, 
but  Ronald  and  Mungo  both  came,  and  when  our 
play  was  over  I  sat  between  them  and  watched  the 
others.  The  funniest  thing  was  a  scene  from  King 
Lear  acted  by  the  Lower  Third,  with  a  very  high- 
voiced,  pink-and-white-faced  girl  of  eleven  as  the 
King  in  a  long  gray  beard,  and  a  deep-voiced  girl, 
twice  as  broad  and  a  full  head  taller,  playing 
Cordelia! 

I  think  Mungo  must  have  been  overwhelmed  by 
my  costume,  for  not  a  word  could  I  get  out  of  him. 
I  couldn't  resist  teasing  him.  His  face  is  terribly 
expressive  when  he  gets  one  of  those  bouts  of  shy- 
ness, and  it  just  eggs  me  on  more  and  more.  Be- 
sides I'm  sure  in  a  way  he  enjoys  being  teased, 
though  he  would  run  away  if  he  could.  I  asked 
him  in  the  words  of  the  play:  "Is  it  one  of  my  well- 
looking  days,  child?  Am  I  in  face  to-day?"  But 
Ronald  answered  for  him,  also  in  the  words  of  the 


The  Camomile  63 

play,  though  not  quite:  "I  never  saw  a  more  spite- 
ful" (instead  of  "sprightly")  "and  malicious  eye!" 
Mungo  even  refused  to  dance  afterwards,  though 
I  know  he  can.  All  evening  he  sat  beside  Ronald 
discussing  Free  Will.  Ronald  says  he  has  a  very 
metaphysical  mind  and  is  the  most  brilliant  man 
of  his  year  in  Philosophy.  I  like  him  very  much 
and  I  know  he  thinks  there's  no  one  like  Ronald, 
but  I  wish  he  wouldn't  wring  his  hands  and  bite  his 
nails.  These  things  make  me  so  uneasy.  He  is 
going  to  be  a  minister.  I  can't  think  why,  for  he 
never  seems  one  bit  religious.  I  suppose  he  finds 
theology  a  kind  of  gymnasium  where  he  can  exer- 
cise his  precious  brains. 

To-night  there  is  to  be  a  proper  dance  afterwards 
and  every  one  is  to  be  in  fancy  dress.  Laura  is 
coming  as  a  nun,  Madge  as  Boadicea.  I  expect  heaps 
of  the  old  girls  will  be  there  and  lots  of  outside 
friends  as  well.  Three  other  scenes  out  of  plays 
will  be  given  besides  ours.  Stella  Christie,  who  is 
said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  girl  that  ever  was  at 
the  school,  is  going  to  do  Hermione  in  A  Winter's 
Tale.  To-night  I  shall  leave  off  the  chemisette. 

December  21.  Last  night  was  a  success:  one  of 
those  successes  that  can  never  be  repeated.  My 


64  The  Camomile 

acting  surprised  every  one,  most  of  all  myself. 
There  were  two  hundred  people  there,  and  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  the  whole  audience  in  the  palm  of  my 
hand.  What  a  peculiar  but  glorious  experience!  I 
knew  I  could  make  them  laugh  whenever  I  liked, 
and  if  it  had  been  a  sad  part  I  could  have  made  them 
cry  quite  as  easily.  I  can't  explain  how  this  should 
have  happened  just  last  night,  for  I  have  acted  in 
things  before,  but  never  felt  like  this  and  probably 
never  shall  again.  No  sooner  had  I  come  on  than 
the  absolute  conviction  came  to  me  that  my  body 
and  my  voice  were  perfect  means  of  expression  per- 
fectly in  my  control.  /  was  somewhere  far  away 
looking  on  at  myself,  exultant  but  cool,  not  involved 
at  all.  This  sounds  cocky  and  exaggerated,  but  it 
is  what  happened.  Afterwards  quite  serious  peo- 
ple like  Dr.  Sturrock  and  Dr.  Bruce  (Madge's  fa- 
ther) told  me  I  was  a  "born  actress,"  and  Miss 
Hepburn  looked  searchingly  into  my  eyes  and  spoke 
of  "this,  your  new  talent."  If  I  were  a  year  younger, 
Ruby,  I  do  believe  my  head  would  have  been  turned. 
But  a  year  ago  I  could  not  have  acted  as  I  did 
last  night.  Dr.  Sturrock  laughed  like  anything  when 
I  told  him  how  I  had  rushed  up  a  "close"  two  days 
ago  to  dodge  him  when  I  was  out  in  my  curl  pa- 
pers. He  said  he  had  "wondered  greatly"  what 


The  Camomile  65 

sort  of  a  being  it  was  that  had  "so  palpably  fled 
at  his  approach."  I  knew  before  that  he  had  beau- 
tiful eyes,  but  never  till  last  night  had  I  looked  deep 
into  them  when  he  was  laughing.  They  are  like 
the  sea,  blue  by  day  and  at  night  almost  black,  and 
you  feel  as  if  you  could  throw  yourself  into  them, 
as  into  the  sea,  and  drown  happily.  Yet  his  wife 
is  rather  like  a  hen,  with  a  nose  that  looks  as  if 
she  might  peck  you  with  it  at  any  minute.  It 
seems  impossible  that  he  can  like  to  kiss  her,  yet 
they  have  such  a  large  family  that  I  suppose  he 
must  at  times.  I  wonder  what  he  would  have  said 
if  he  had  known  the  notion  that  was  passing  through 
my  head  while  we  stood  talking  there.  I  was  won- 
dering what  it  would  be  like  to  be  secretly  loved 
by  a  famous  preacher  like  him.  Not  a  soul 
would  know  except  himself  and  yourself,  and  when 
he  was  with  you  he  would  be  merely  a  man  and  your 
lover,  whereas  all  the  rest  of  his  time  he  would 
have  to  be  in  the  public  eye  as  a  pastor  and  an 
example.  I  imagined  myself  sitting  in  the  gallery 
at  church,  seeing  his  wife  in  the  minister's  pew  and 
all  the  people  listening  to  every  word  he  said,  and 
how  I  would  whisper  to  myself,  "He's  my  lover,  I'm 
his  beloved."  This  takes  a  while  to  write  down 
and  looks  silly  when  written,  but  it  went  through 


66  The  Camomile 

my  head  in  that  one  second  when  he  had  been 
teasing  me  about  my  curls  and  stood  smiling  down 
at  me.  What's  more,  I  know  that  every  woman  in 
our  church,  even  very  old  ones  like  the  Miss  Clarks, 
have  just  the  same  kind  of  thoughts  when  Dr.  Stur- 
rock  talks  nicely  to  them.  They  would  die  sooner 
than  admit  it  like  me.  But  there  it  is,  and  for  this 
reason  I  shall  never  marry  a  minister,  however 
much  he  may  win  my  heart's  devotion. 

Laura  looked  lovely  in  her  nun's  dress.  It  is 
of  fine  white  cashmere,  fold  upon  fold,  with  a  blue 
cape  and  hood  in  one  and  white  bands  under  her 
chin  and  across  her  forehead.  I  couldn't  have  be- 
lieved she  would  have  looked  so  perfect  with  all  her 
hair  hidden,  but  now  I  shall  always  see  her  as  a  nun. 
It  is  her  dress:  it  suits  her  soul.  Its  only  disadvan- 
tage as  a  fancy  dress  is  that  it  is  rather  hot  for 
dancing.  Anyhow,  she  would  hardly  dance  at  all, 
though  Wilfred  Dudgeon  was  there  and  was  always 
asking  her  to.  I  do  wonder  what  these  two  talk 
about  when  they  are  quite  alone.  Last  night  they 
sat  together  nearly  the  whole  evening,  but  each  time 
I  looked  at  them  they  were  without  a  word  between 
them.  Madge  was  very  splendid  and  large,  though 
not  tall  enough,  as  a  warrioress  with  a  silver-paper 
spear,  but  the  dress  was  not  really  becoming.  Her 


The  Camomile  67 

singing  was,  in  its  own  way,  as  great  a  success  as 
my  acting.  I  played  for  her  and  revelled  in  the 
sensation  she  made,  feeling  for  some  reason  like  a 
young  man.  I  never  love  Madge  so  much  as  when 
she  is  singing.  Other  people  may  sing  as  well  and 
better,  but  there  is  something  so  innocent  about  her 
voice  that  it  makes  me  laugh  and  cry  at  the  same 
time. 

Aunt  Harry  looked  dreadfully  vexed  when  I  came 
home  in  my  dress.  She  had  not  actually  seen  me 
wearing  it  before,  and  I  was  hoping  she  would  not 
sit  up,  but  she  must  have  done  so  on  purpose. 
When  I  was  in  bed,  though,  she  came  to  kiss  me 
good-night.  She  said  then  that  she  was  sorry  she 
had  not  been  able  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  her 
approval  and  her  presence,  but  that  she  served  "One 
higher  than  Man."  We  parted  very  affectionately. 

December  23.  I  find  I  have  not  told  you  the 
half  about  Friday  night,  so  as  this  is  Sunday  I  shall 
try  to  put  some  more  down. 

There  is  no  doubt  those  three  years  away  have 
made  a  difference  to  me.  It  does  not  always  appear 
even  to  myself,  but  on  Friday,  ten  minutes  before 
my  play  started,  I  was  peeping  at  the  audience 
through  a  hole  in  the  curtain,  and  it  came  to  me  all 


68  The  Camomile 

of  a  sudden  that  /  was  outside!  Once  I  had  been 
a  part  of  what  I  looked  on.  Now  I  saw  it  as  if  I 
were  the  boy  in  the  fairy  tale  who  spied  from  behind 
a  rock  at  the  seven  cloud  maidens.  At  that  moment 
there  were  about  seventy  of  our  girls  scrambling  over 
the  forms  for  places  and  shoving  past  each  other. 
What  a  racket!  But  I  realized  for  the  first  time 
why  men  and  older  people  think  nearly  all  girls 
attractive,  and  I  wondered  how  I  should  look  among 
the  others  if  I  were  there  and  some  man  instead 
of  me  at  my  peephole.  I  watched  four  of  them 
especially — Laura  and  Madge,  Isabel  Christie  and 
Joanna  Bannerman.  Madge  never  stopped  going 
off  into  little  fits  of  giggling.  She  couldn't  resist 
giving  quite  a  hard  smack  to  the  bottom  of  any 
girl  that  happened  to  bend  within  easy  reach  of 
her  (Madge  still  retains  that  infantine  habit). 
When  they  had  settled  down,  Isabel  sat  between 
Madge  and  Laura,  and  Joanna  on  the  outside.  I 
tried  to  decide  which  was  the  prettiest  and  could 
not  choose  between  Laura  and  Isabel.  Joanna  of 
course  is  by  a  long  way  the  eldest.  At  school  she 
was  four  classes  above  me  (I  was  keen  on  her  when 
I  was  in  the  Upper  Third ! )  so  she  must  be  at  least 
twenty-six  now.  To  my  mind  she  looks  more.  She 
is  one  of  those  that  every  one  watches  and  talks 


The  Camomile  69 

about  without  quite  knowing  why — perhaps  because 
she  is  the  kind  of  person  things  happen  to.  It  is 
some  years  ago  since  she  very  suddenly  married  an 
Italian  man  and  went  to  Italy.  But  her  husband 
died  within  six  months  and  she  came  back  to  Glas- 
gow. Her  mother  is  one  of  our  Tea-and-Prayer 
Gathering  members,  but  doesn't  get  on  well  with 
Aunt  Harry.  On  Friday  I  had  a  good  look  at  Joanna. 
I  wonder  what  her  secret  is!  She  is  not  really 
pretty — a  longish,  flattish  face  with  the  eyes  rather 
too  close  together  and  a  habit  of  looking  down  her 
nose — yet  somehow  without  making  any  effort  she 
has  got  the  reputation  for  being  a  beauty.  I  never 
knew  any  one  of  whom  so  many  other  girls  were 
jealous.  Can  it  be  her  experience?  Is  it  perhaps 
the  hidden  wish  of  many  young  females  to  marry 
at  twenty  and  to  be  left  widows  at  twenty-one? 

Isabel  Christie,  I  consider,  has  a  beautiful  face, 
though  one  is  apt  to  forget  it  when  her  sister  Stella 
is  about.  She  was  rather  backward  at  school  (in 
everything  but  drawing)  and  stayed  always  in  the 
class  below  Laura  and  Madge  and  me,  while  Stella 
was  in  the  class  above  us.  Now  she  is  an  artist 
and  teaches  in  Miss  Sutherland's  school,  but  our 
hours  are  different  and  I  hardly  ever  meet  her  to 
speak  to.  Though  she  is  dark  and  Laura  so  very 


7O  The  Camomile 

fair,  they  have  both  the  same  kind  of  still,  pent-up 
look.  When  you  are  with  them  you  long  all  the 
time  to  unscrew  something  for  them.  But  the  dif- 
ference is  that  you  feel  Isabel  is  longing  to  be  un- 
screwed if  only  she  knew  how  to  set  about  it,  while 
Laura  deliberately,  passionately,  I  believe,  keeps 
screwing  herself  up  tighter  and  tighter,  using  what 
she  calls  her  "sense  of  honor"  as  the  lever. 

When  A  Winter's  Tale  came  on  we  were  all  agog 
to  see  Stella.  How  can  I  describe  her  Hermione  to 
you !  It  was  atrocious  and  it  was  exquisite,  and  the 
atrocity  and  exquisiteness  were  in  equal  propor- 
tions. I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  anything  more  dis- 
couraging than  her  voice.  It  was  perfectly  level 
and  toneless  with  self-consciousness,  so  that  not  a 
word  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  made  the  slightest 
impact  on  the  senses.  Miss  Dodds  could  have 
spared  herself  the  trouble  of  cutting  out  all  the 
improper  passages,  because  after  an  effort  or  two  one 
simply  gave  up  trying  to  listen.  But  Stella's  move- 
ments, her  poses,  the  way  her  lovely  draperies 
(Isabel  had  designed  and  made  the  dress)  fell  into 
folds — these  were  things  you  could  not  take  your 
eyes  off  for  a  second.  It  cannot,  I  think,  have  been 
the  mere  force  of  her  beauty,  though  this  is 
great.  Stella  must  have  some  gift  for  dumb  show 


The  Camomile  71 

acting,  for  her  gestures  were  wonderfully,  and  one 
felt,  unconsciously,  eloquent.  It  was  only  her  voice 
that  was  frozen  by  her  self-consciousness.  In  the 
scene  of  the  statue  coming  to  life  she  was  quite 
perfect  till  she  had  to  make  her  single  speech.  Even 
then  it  was  not  that  her  voice  was  unpleasant.  It 
was  simply  colorless  to  a  degree  that  frightened  me. 
But,  Ruby,  how  soon  I  tire  of  being  with,  even  of 
watching  people!  A  single  look  into  one  human 
being's  eyes,  a  few  words,  five  minutes  peeping 
through  a  curtain,  and  I  have  so  much  to  think 
over  and  examine  that  I  long  desperately  for  soli- 
tude. After  such  a  night  as  Friday,  sleep  is  for 
me  out  of  the  question.  I  live  through  it  all  again 
with  every  perception  a  thousand  times  sharpened. 
Why?  What  for?  I  don't  myself  know.  At  times 
I  think  I  am  trying  to  find  a  meaning  in  it.  At 
other  times  it  seems  a  case  of  struggling  to  absorb 
something  too  large  and  complex  for  my  powers. 
After  the  dullest  party  I  feel  like  a  boa-constrictor 
that  has  swallowed  an  ox.  And  all  the  while  there 
is  an  attempt  to  test  my  own  inner  world  by  all 
these  new  impressions  from  outside,  as  well  as  to 
discover  by  the  light  of  that  inner  secret  world  what 
parts  of  the  outward  experience  are  important  or 
useful  to  me. 


72  The  Camomile 

Then,  when  at  last  I  have  sorted  out  my  riches 
once  more,  the  realization  of  what  it  is  to  be  alive 
in  the  world  comes  over  me  and  makes  me  almost 
faint.  Then  I  could  run  out  into  the  street  and 
call  to  the  people  to  stop  and  listen  to  me.  But 
what  should  I  be  able  to  say  to  them  if  they  did 
stop?  Nothing.  Their  eyes  and  faces  would  only 
excite  me  still  more,  and  fearful,  strange  thoughts 
would  flock  into  my  head,  thoughts  which  if  they 
were  uttered  would  soon  land  me  in  Gartnavel  (our 
local  Bedlam). 

All  yesterday  I  felt  strange  and  feverish  and  as 
if  the  least  wind  would  blow  me  away  like  a  little 
dust.  The  outlines  and  colors  of  things  seemed 
clearer  and  very  much  brighter  than  usual.  Now 
my  head  aches,  and  I  would  give  anything  to  switch 
off  the  wheels  of  my  being  and  sink  into  oblivion. 
If  I  had  my  wish  I  would  drink  a  potion  of  forget- 
fulness  and  be  laid  in  a  great  cool  bed  in  a  room, 
with  high  windows  thrown  open  to  the  sound  of 
the  sea  and  the  salt  smell  of  the  sea.  How  I  should 
sleep!  And  how  I  should  wake  next  morning,  and 
stretch,  and  laugh  with  joy  at  being  able  to  start 
thinking  again  of  the  wonder  of  being  alive. 


// — Studies  and  Inventions 

January  2.  How  glad  I  am  the  holidays  are  al- 
most over!  Somehow  one  does  miss  parents  at 
Christmas,  even  when  one  is  grown  up  and,  like 
Ronald  and  me,  long  used  to  doing  without  them. 
Aunt  Harry  doesn't  much  hold  with  Christmas  fes- 
tivities anyway.  She  prefers  the  good  old  Scot- 
tish Hogmanay  (without  the  drink!)  and  says 
Christmas  is  "tainted  with  Papistry."  So  we  do 
not  give  her  her  proper  present  till  her  birthday, 
which  is  at  the  end  of  February.  All  the  same,  I 
had  some  lovely  presents — an  attache  case  made  of 
real  morocco  from  Ronald,  a  Waterman  fountain 
pen  from  Laura,  a  copy  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit  from 
Madge,  and  a  metronome  (which  I  asked  for,  be- 
cause if  I  don't  ask  she's  sure  to  give  me  a  Mis- 
sionary book)  from  Aunt  Harry.  I  have  already 
devoured  your  Return  of  the  Native  (Aunt  Harry 
was  delighted  seeing  the  title  and  made  sure  it  was 
an  account  of  the  Gospel  being  preached  in  the 
Congo)  and  I'm  determined  to  read  as  quickly  as 
possible  everything  Hardy  has  written. 

73 


74  The  Camomile 

Though  Christmas  itself  was  dull  with  us,  it  just 
happened  that  on  the  Sunday  after  we  had  one  of 
those  rare,  delicious  times  which  I  suppose  must 
come  to  all  families  now  and  then.  The  charm  of 
such  times  is  their  absolute  character — I  mean  their 
being  unique  to  one  particular  family  and  in  some 
essential  way  different  from  the  special  moments 
of  any  other  family  on  earth.  I  should  think  one 
of  the  great  acts  of  faith  demanded  from  a  novelist 
is  that  in  describing  something  of  the  sort  which 
is  bound  to  be  a  peculiar  experience  to  himself,  he 
should  stick  faithfully  to  the  facts,  believing  that 
just  because  of  their  peculiarity  his  description  will 
ring  true  with  the  reader,  however  different  the 
peculiarity  of  the  reader's  own  experience  may  have 
been.  And  this  must  be  equally  true  whether  the 
novelist  is  transcribing  or  inventing  incidents.  Do 
you  see  what  I  am  driving  at,  I  wonder?  It  is 
hardly  ever  from  the  likely  touches,  nearly  always 
from  the  wwlikely  ones,  that  the  reader  gets  that 
sudden,  piercing  sense  of  life  in  a  good  book.  Yet 
at  the  same  time  it  must  never  be  an  unlikeliness 
which  is  contrary  to  nature.  That's  the  difficulty. 
It  must  be  an  eminently  natural  unlikeliness! 

But  I  was  telling  you  about  last  Sunday.  At 
dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day  things  had  gone 


The  Camomile  75 

badly,  as  they  generally  do  on  Communion  Sunday. 
Ronald  was  praising  the  many  virtues  of  Mr.  Mur- 
ray, the  architect  to  whom  he  is  apprenticed,  and 
Aunt  Harry  said  she  was  sorry  she  could  not  approve 
of  him  as  she  feared  he  was  "not  an  experimental 
Christian."  Ronald  is  very  rarely  cross  with  Aunt 
Harry,  but  at  this,  to  my  great  satisfaction,  he  fired 
up  a  bit,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  meal  things  were 
rather  strained.  At  night,  though,  for  some  reason 
Ronald  was  hi  wild  spirits  and  Aunt  Harry  couldn't 
resist  him.  She  even  let  him  juggle  with  the  cheese 
plates  (he  has  always  loved  juggling  and  has 
smashed  a  good  many  things  learning,  but  is  get- 
ting good  at  it  now)  and  he  didn't  break  one.  Now 
and  then  when  she  recollected  that  it  was  Com- 
munion Sunday  she  tried  to  reprove  him,  but  she 
went  into  fits  all  the  same  and  really  enjoyed  it. 
She  never  looks  half  so  sweet  as  when  she  lets  her- 
self go  with  Ronald.  Then  Ronald  did  an  imita- 
tion of  the  way  she  had  talked  to  Mungo's 
mother  and  sisters  the  other  day,  always  drawing 
his  chair  nearer  with  every  sentence.  It  was  Aunt 
Harry  to  the  life.  Eliza,  who  was  clearing  away 
the  supper  things,  laughed  like  anything,  though 
always,  of  course,  behind  her  hand.  Eliza  has  a 
new  set  of  teeth  that  make  her  more  genteel  in  her 


76  The  Camomile 

speech  than  ever.  Lately  she  has  become  a  per- 
fect dragon  at  the  front  door,  only  half  opening  it 
and  actually  sending  away  visitors  she  doesn't  like 
the  look  of. 

For  the  last  day  of  the  year  two  young  men,  new 
friends  of  Ronald,  came  to  spend  the  evening,  and 
before  tea  Aunt  Harry  made  us  sit  round  and  read, 
each  in  turn,  quotations  from  a  missionary  calendar. 
If  I  had  been  Ronald  I  couldn't  have  stood  it,  but 
he  was  quite  patient,  taking  it  as  a  joke.  We  had 
even  to  sing  two  hymns  which  greatly  surprised  our 
visitors,  who  are  English  and  are  here  to  study  en- 
gineering. Tea  itself  was  such  an  uproarious  feast 
that  the  elder  boy  had  to  leave  the  room  once,  he 
laughed  so  much.  He  lay  down  in  the  passage  out- 
side and  turned  quite  pale  so  that  I  was  frightened, 
but  he  came  round  all  right  again.  The  wit  that 
flowed  from  Ronald  and  me  truly  surprised  our- 
selves. I  suppose  we  felt  we  had  to  be  extra  amus- 
ing to  make  up  for  Aunt  Harry.  Yet  it  was  Aunt 
Harry's  being  there  that  made  the  entertainment 
what  it  was. 

When  it  struck  twelve  I  ran  to  open  the  front 
door,  and,  Ruby,  a  man  was  there,  standing  quite 
close  to  me  and  perfectly  motionless!  I  uttered  a 
loud  screech  and  banged  the  door  shut  again. 


The  Camomile  77 

By  the  time  the  others  came  he  was  gone.  Ronald 
said  I  should  at  least  have  stopped  to  look  whether 
the  man  was  dark  or  fair,  and  that  by  not  doing 
so  I  may  have  spoiled  my  luck  for  the  year,  besides 
being  very  impolite.  But  can't  you  imagine  what 
a  fright  it  gave  me?  It  was  a  dark,  drenching  night. 

Sunday,  January  6.  These  two  days  we  have  had 
wild  snow-storms.  I'm  seizing  the  opportunity  of 
the  school  holidays,  which  are  still  on,  to  go  oftener 
than  ever  to  the  Mitchell  Library  to  read.  It  is 
not  a  convenient  place  to  get  at,  especially  in  this 
weather — quite  a  long  car  journey  to  a  dismal  little 
street  full  of  warehouses  and  cranes  that  keep  hoist- 
ing and  lowering  piles  of  wooden  crates  full  of  goods, 
so  that  one  can  hardly  walk  on  either  pavement  and 
the  narrow  roadway  is  blocked  with  carts  and  horses 
— nor  is  it  particularly  nice  to  sit  in  when  you  get 
there.  The  atmosphere  is  foul,  partly  I  suppose 
from  the  numbers  of  out-of-work  people  who  spend 
the  day  there  reading  advertisements.  But  I  must 
have  books,  and  have  them  without  feeling  that 
Aunt  Harry  is  reading  them  over  my  shoulder  or 
burrowing  among  my  underclothes  for  them  when 
I'm  out.  Besides,  it  is  so  difficult  anyway  to  get  the 
ones  I  want  most  out  of  any  of  the  little  circu- 


78  The  Camomile 

lating  libraries  near  home  that  I  am  tempted  to  go 
on  taking  out  books  I  don't  specially  want,  and 
wasting  time  and  money  reading  them.  As  for  my 
Room,  I  have  made  it  a  rule  that  I  mustn't  read 
there  any  day  I  have  not  done  at  least  three  hours' 
work,  either  practising  or  writing  (not  counting  this 
journal).  That  means  I  can  hardly  read  there  at  all. 

So  I  go  to  the  old  Mitchell,  and  from  the  very 
distance  and  discomfort,  and  the  fact  that  I  can't 
take  the  volumes  home,  I  am  compelled  to  pick  out 
only  the  books  I  vitally  want.  I  find  I  have  to  try 
on  lots  of  dodges  like  this  with  myself.  Do  you 
call  it  dishonest?  I  fear  it  may  be  the  inevitable 
result  of  my  tolerating  so  many  other  dishonesties 
(like  teaching  music  and  going  every  Sunday  to 
church)  in  my  life  here. 

In  the  last  few  weeks,  going  down  to  the  Mitchell 
at  odd  times,  I  have  read  the  works  of  John  David- 
son (a  Greenock  man),  plays,  poems  and  all,  Shaw's 
Plays  Unpleasant,  the  poems  of  James  Thomson 
(City  of  Dreadful  Night,  etc.)  and  two  of  Hardy's 
novels  (these  since  your  present).  If  only  I  could 
write  as  well  as  I  can  read,  I  should  be  a  good 
writer!  You  think  any  one  can  say  this!  Not  at 
all,  let  me  tell  you! 


The  Camomile  79 

January  7.  Still  terrific  weather — icy  cold  with 
snow  blizzards.  This  morning  I  bought  myself  a 
dress  (fawn  velveteen)  at  Dymock's  winter  sale. 
Dymock's  is  one  of  the  smartest  (and  dearest)  shops 
in  Glasgow.  I  had  very  seldom  been  inside  before, 
and  then  only  to  help  other  people  choose  things. 
But  as  Madge  says,  Dymock's,  "unlike  the  cheap- 
jacks,"  do  sell  off  their  own  goods  at  their  sales  and 
so  have  real  reductions.  I  had  not  dreamed  of  buy- 
ing anything  when  I  went  into  town,  was  indeed 
walking  in  to  the  Mitchell  partly  to  warm  myself, 
partly  to  economize  in  car  fares.  But  I  caught  sight 
of  this  dress  in  the  window,  and  it  seemed  so  much 
as  if  it  were  made  for  me  that  I  couldn't  resist  go- 
ing in  to  try  it  on.  In  vain  I  thought  of  the  books 
I  want  to  buy,  of  all  the  frightfully  poor  people  Aunt 
Harry  is  always  begging  for.  It  fitted  me  so  per- 
fectly, except  that  the  skirt  will  want  a  few  inches 
off,  that  I  simply  had  to  have  it! 

January  9.  Had  the  fawn  dress  tried  on  at  Dy- 
mock's this  afternoon  just  for  length.  I  felt  bad 
about  it,  all  the  more  that  I'm  not  so  sure  now  if 
it  suits  me!  Five  pounds  is  a  lot  of  money,  besides 
I  had  forgotten  yesterday  about  Aunt  Harry's  birth- 
day. Ronald  and  I  want  to  give  her  a  fur-lined 


80  The  Camomile 

coat  between  us.  She  really  needs  one,  but  nothing 
would  induce  her  to  buy  it  for  herself.  (This  is  not 
stinginess  on  her  part,  but  that,  "considering  the  sad 
and  heathen  state  of  the  world  at  present,"  she  does 
not  "feel  justified,"  etc.,  etc.)  That  means  I  am 
pretty  well  cleaned  out  till  next  quarter,  for  there 
is  Laura's  present  as  well,  and  for  that  I  have  set 
my  heart  on  a  pair  of  old  glass  candlesticks  I  saw 
in  a  shop  in  Cambridge  Street.  My  dress  has  a 
blue  girdle  of  such  a  lovely  shade — a  kind  of  tur- 
quoise. It  was  this,  I  think,  that  forced  me  to  go 
in  to  try  it  on,  and  then  I  fell.  But,  worst  of  all, 
I  bought  a  hat  too  to-day,  of  exactly  the  same  shade 
of  fawn!  The  woman  said  it  would  be  a  sin  to  let 
it  go.  It  cost  twenty-five  shillings!  It  really  suits 
me. 

January  15.  A  cousin  of  ours  called  Peggy  Mon- 
crieff  died  in  Aberdeen  yesterday.  (No,  I  shall  not 
have  to  go  into  mourning.  That  would  have  dished 
me! )  Her  husband,  a  very  clever  children's  doctor, 
was  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  her,  and  no  one  knows 
what  he  will  do  without  her.  She  was  certainly 
lovely  to  look  at,  but  "unsuited"  Aunt  Harry  says 
"for  married  life,"  whatever  she  may  mean  by  that. 
Aunt  Harry  is  going  to  Aberdeen  for  the  funeral. 


The  Camomile  81 

She  has  told  us  she  is  going  to  be  "very  careful" 
about  what  she  says,  for  she  thinks  that  "poor  Peggy 
has  only  got  to  Heaven  by  the  skin  of  her  teeth,  and 
because  she  had  praying  parents."  Ronald  says  that 
even  if  she  hadn't  had  praying  parents  Aunt  Harry 
would  still  have  let  her  get  to  Heaven  "by  the  skin," 
etc.  For  then  she  would  not  have  had  "the  oppor- 
tunities with  which  we  have  been  so  richly  blessed." 
Ronald  says  that  is  one  of  the  many  lovable  things 
about  Aunt  Harry — her  theology  is  so  elastic  when 
it  comes  to  the  bit. 

I  myself  think  Peggy's  teeth  must  have  a  pretty 
thick  skin  if  she  'scapes  Hell.  She  once  said  in  Ron- 
ald's hearing,  when  he  was  about  ten,  that  he  would 
have  been  "better  dead";  heaps  of  times  she  called 
me  "a  cheeky  brat"  when  I  was  nothing  of  the  sort; 
and  I  know  she  refused  to  have  more  than  one 
baby,  though  her  husband  adores  children  and 
wanted  several.  What  business  has  a  woman  like 
that  to  get  married? — unless  of  course  she  explains 
to  the  man  beforehand,  which  I'm  sure  Peggy  never 
did — she  was  always  such  a  liar.  I  expect  she  pre- 
tended when  they  were  engaged  that  she  wanted  to 
have  a  baby  every  year.  But  there  you  are.  It  is 
said  that  he  worshiped  the  ground  she  trod  on.  She 
was  really  beautiful.  I  see  that  now,  though  when 


82  The  Camomile 

I  was  fifteen  and  she  was  twenty-five  I  wouldn't  ad- 
mit that  she  had  any  good  looks. 

Would  you  like  to  be  beautiful?  I  can't  make 
up  my  mind  if  I  should  or  not.  It  seems  almost 
like  a  profession  in  itself,  and  not  a  very  interest- 
ing one  so  far  as  the  beautiful  person  is  concerned. 
Ronald  says  I've  greatly  improved  in  looks  lately, 
and  as  he  once  told  me  not  to  worry  because  I  had 
"an  air"  I'm  hoping  for  the  best.  But  real  beauty 
like  Peggy  MoncriefF s  or  Stella  Christie's  is  quite 
another  thing.  It  is  by  far  the  most  important  thing 
about  them. 

Aunt  Harry  will  have  to  spend  at  least  one  night 
in  Aberdeen  (she  will  have  to  be  careful!),  so  I'm 
taking  the  chance  of  having  a  special  little  supper 
party  at  home.  What,  though,  if  Aunt  Harry 
changes  her  mind  and  doesn't  go?  This  is  the  kind 
of  problem  with  which  I  continually  have  to  deal. 
I'm  getting  lines  on  my  forehead  with  anxiety. 

January  16.  A  "Christian  friend"  of  Aunt  Har- 
ry's (Aunt  Harry  calls  her  "Edith,"  but  I  don't  think 
she  likes  it)  "took  advantage"  of  Aunt  Harry's  ab- 
sence to  sleep  at  our  house  to-night,  so  that  little 
supper  party  of  mine  has  had  to  be  postponed.  The 
lady's  name  is  Miss  McRaith,  but  though  she  must 


The  Camomile  83 

be  of  Irish  extraction  she  comes  from  England. 
She's  not  quite  young,  nor  at  all  old,  and,  if  she 
knew  how,  she  might  be  rather  pretty  to  look  at. 
She  does  not  know  how.  Her  hair,  when  it  is  down, 
is  lovely  (she  took  good  care  to  let  me  see  that  by 
coming  to  my  bedroom  door  half  an  hour  ago  with 
it  all  loose  round  her  shoulders  to  ask  for  a  bit  of 
ribbon  to  tie  it  with.)  It  is  much  fairer  and  curlier 
than  mine,  though  I  stick  to  it  that  mine  has  richer 
shades  in  it,  and  personally  I  don't  admire  her  ex- 
cessively curly  hair.  It  is  about  twice  as  long  and 
thick  as  mine,  being  almost  like  one  of  those  ad- 
vertisements for  hair  tonic,  but  it  doesn't  grow  so 
nicely  from  the  forehead  as  mine,  nor  go  nearly  so 
nicely  when  it  is  up,  and  that's  what  counts,  isn't  it? 
What's  the  use  of  a  great  lot  of  hair  if  it  doesn't 
add  to  the  beauty  of  the  head  it  grows  on?  For 
me  it  might  just  as  well  be  in  a  glass  case  at  the 
barber's. 

Aunt  Harry  has  told  Miss  McRaith  to  regard  our 
house  as  her  "second  home."  Luckily  this  doesn't 
mean  quite  so  much  as  it  sounds.  She  is  the  Lady 
Missionary  in  Lord  A.'s  Settlement  for  ironworkers 
in  Motherwell,  so  that  when  she  comes  in  to  Glasgow 
for  a  meeting  or  anything  she  needs  a  bed  and  can- 
not afford  a  hotel.  The  stupid  thing  is  that  we  have 


84  The  Camomile 

no  spare  room  now.  Accordingly  this  means  either 
(i)  that  I  have  to  clear  out  of  my  room  and  sleep 
on  the  dining-room  sofa,  or  (2)  that  she  comes  when 
Aunt  Harry  happens  to  be  away  for  a  night.  The 
first  is  nuisance  enough,  the  second  is  something 
worse.  Those  precious  nights  when  Aunt  Harry  is 
away! 

January  17.  The  specially  interesting  thing  ("no- 
ble," Aunt  Harry  calls  it)  about  Miss  McRaith  is 
that  when  she  was  converted,  about  ten  years  ago, 
she  is  said  to  have  broken  off  her  engagement  with 
a  man  who  was  "young,  handsome,  well-connected, 
and  blest  with  this  world's  goods."  This  was  so  that 
she  might  not  be  "yoked  together  with  an  unbe- 
liever." Aunt  Harry  says  she  has  "suffered  much 
for  conscience  sake,"  and  that  I  should  respect  such 
suffering  whatever  views  I  hold.  Poor  Miss  Mc- 
Raith, she  does  look  as  if  she  suffers.  But  I  won- 
der if  she  really  broke  off  the  engagement  herselj! 
If  she  did,  her  suffering  may  be  at  the  thought  of 
having  played  such  a  mean  trick  on  any  one.  (Once 
I  gave  my  word  to  a  man  in  that  way  I'd  rather 
die  than  take  it  back,  wouldn't  you?)  But  some- 
how the  more  I  see  of  her  the  more  I  think  hers 
looks  like  the  pain  of  the  jilted  party.  Eliza  can't 


The  Camomile  85 

abide  her,  and  utterly  refused  the  other  night  to 
put  clean  sheets  on  Aunt  Harry's  bed  for  her. 
"They  did  Miss  Carstairs,  so  surely  they  can  dae 
Miss  McGraw,"  she  said.  She  will  insist  that  Miss 
McR.  is  not  English  at  all,  but  a  "ram-stam  Irish," 
and  that  her  real  name  is  McGraw.  About  the 
sheets,  I  was  so  vexed  over  my  party  that  I  could 
easily  have  been  wicked  enough  to  let  things  take 
their  course.  All  the  same  I  sent  Eliza  off  and  re- 
made the  bed  myself. 

At  supper  I  asked  Miss  McR.  if  she  thought 
Shakespeare  was  converted. 

"Not  when  he  wrote  his  plays,"  was  her  answer! 
Anyhow  she's  more  consistent  than  Aunt  Harry. 

But,  oh,  the  relief  when  she  is  out  of  the  house 
again!  I  take  a  long  breath  and  spread  my  wings. 
She  must  know  this,  I  think,  for  she  gives  nasty 
thrusts  occasionally,  trying  to  make  me  say  some- 
thing rude  to  her,  while  all  the  time,  especially  if 
Aunt  Harry  is  away,  I  feel  I  have  to  be  at  least 
civil  to  her  as  a  guest  of  the  house.  One  day  I 
even  trimmed  a  toque  for  her.  She's  no  hand  at 
dress,  poor  thing. 

January  20.  Your  letter  about  Boris  Fabian  ar- 
rived this  morning  and  all  day  I  have  thought  of 


86  The  Camomile 

nothing  else.  Decadent  he  may  have  been,  as  you 
say,  but  he  must  have  been  very  unhappy  or  ill,  or 
both,  to  have  got  the  length  of  killing  himself.  For 
if  ever  any  one  was  gifted  and  quite  soberly  con- 
scious of  his  gifts,  he  was.  Poor  Boris!  Poor  lad! 
I  wonder  what  went  so  wrong.  We  shall  never 
know.  Do  you  remember  how  horrified — and,  let 
us  now  own,  excited — we  were  when  Mr.  Hermann 
told  us  he  was  going  with  women  of  the  town?  Of 
course  it  was  because  we  had  neither  of  us  defi- 
nitely known  that  of  any  man  before,  but  I  feel 
rather  ashamed,  and  I  expect  you  do  too,  of  the 
way  we  waited  the  night  after  that  in  the  Theater 
Platz  to  see  if  he  would  go  home  with  any  one  when 
he  came  out. 

Don't  you  agree  that  Boris  was  tremendously 
gifted?  I  know  he  was  lazy  about  practising,  but 
then  he  never  intended  to  be  an  executant,  and  good- 
ness knows  he  had  enough  facility  and  technique 
for  his  own  purposes.  To  compose  and  to  be  Kapell- 
meister at  Munich,  that  was  his  dream.  I  thought 
his  compositions  very,  very  interesting  and  original. 
That  queer  Nietzsche  oratorio  thing,  Der  Ueber- 
mensch  ...  I  know  parts  were  a  little  comic,  but 
parts  impressed  me  as  being  more  than  talented. 
The  Sunday  I  went  with  him  to  the  Konigsberg 


The  Camomile  87 

where  he  had  rooms,  he  sang  nearly  all  the  vocal 
parts  to  me  in  his  husky,  out-of-tune  voice.  This 
evening  I  have  been  going  over  every  minute  of  that 
Sunday.  He  was  not,  though  you  always  would 
think  so,  seriously  in  love  with  me,  but  we  liked  one 
another  very  much.  I  remember  once  he  kissed  my 
hand  after  a  talk  we  had  been  having,  and  with  that 
cynical  smile  twisting  his  small  mouth  to  one  side 
(his  mouth  was  certainly  his  worst  point,  so  weak- 
looking  and  small,  almost  like  a  fish's  mouth)  he 
said,  "If  only  you  good  girls  were  not  quite  so 
good!" 

That  day  at  Konigsberg  a  terrific  thunderstorm 
came  on  when  we  were  out  walking  in  the  woods, 
and,  as  I  had  no  wrap  when  the  rain  came  on,  he 
gave  me  the  cape  of  his  coat,  which  was  a  kind  of 
Inverness  with  no  sleeves  underneath,  so  that,  while 
I  was  quite  covered  with  the  cape,  his  arms  got 
drenched  through  and  through.  He  loved  the  storm, 
though,  and  the  wet  and  everything,  a"nd  strode  along 
in  front  of  me  waving  his  arms  and  shouting  motifs 
out  of  Der  Uebermensch  at  the  pitch  of  his  voice. 
I  was  furious  with  him  when  I  missed  the  last  train 
back  to  Frankfort  owing  to  his  watch  having 
stopped,  and  still  more  furious  when  he  doubled  up 
with  laughter  on  the  lonely,  dripping  little  station 


88  The  Camomile 

platform.  But  I  went  back  to  supper  in  his  rooms 
and  we  made  a  wood  fire  and  sat  talking  over  it  till 
late,  roasting  chestnuts  and  eating  smoked  salmon, 
for  which  he  had  a  passion.  He  told  me  all  his  am- 
bitions then,  and  asked  me  did  I  think  I  would  ever 
give  concerts  in  London.  I  can't  think  what  made 
me  give  the  answer  I  did,  for  at  that  time  I  had  not 
yet  realized  how  trifling  my  musical  powers  were, 
but  it  was  as  if  some  one  struck  a  match  in  my  mind, 
showing  me  my  future  quite  clearly.  "I  shall  never 
succeed  at  music,"  I  said.  "In  time  I  shall  find  a 
way  of  expressing  myself,  but  it  won't  be  by  music." 
He  looked  at  me  with  those  extraordinary  dark  blue 
eyes  (even  more  beautiful  than  Dr.  Sturrock's)  and 
that  mixture  of  inquisitiveness  and  extreme  friend- 
liness that  always  made  something  melt  within  me. 
"Do  you  mean  by  love  and  by  bearing  children?"  he 
asked.  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  that,  but  I  stared 
back  and  said,  "perhaps  that  too."  "And  what 
besides?"  he  went  on.  It  was  then  that,  just  as  if 
some  one  else  was  speaking  through  my  mouth,  I 
heard  myself  say,  "I  shall  write."  It  came  as  quite 
a  surprise  to  both  of  us. 

He  got  me  a  room  at  the  inn,  and  borrowed  a 
thick  linen  nightgown  from  his  landlady,  though  he 
said  he  was  sure  I  shouldn't  mind  sleeping  for  once 


The  Camomile  89 

in  my  chemise  like  a  Russian  girl.  Then  at  five  in 
the  morning,  so  that  I  should  catch  the  very  earliest 
train  back  and  avoid  scandalizing  old  Fraulein 
Bruch,  who,  if  she  saw  me  at  breakfast,  would  never 
guess  I  had  been  away  all  night,  he  wakened  me 
himself  by  throwing  a  great  branch  of  apple-blossom 
in  at  my  window.  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  looked 
down  at  him  in  the  orchard.  It  was  a  lovely  morn- 
ing after  the  storm,  and  in  the  sunlight  his  hair  was 
like  pure  gold.  And  now  he  is  dead. 

Is  it  because  he  is  dead  that  now  at  this  moment, 
and  for  the  first  time,  I  feel  almost  guilty  toward 
him?  How  could  things  that  night  have  been  dif- 
ferent between  us?  Neither  of  us  was  passionately 
in  love  with  the  other.  And  yet  ...  it  was  my  do- 
ing, my  upbringing  entirely  that  made  me  set  aside 
the  natural  consequences  of  the  attraction  we  both 
felt  for  one  another  and  the  circumstances  that  so 
strongly  prompted  nature.  I  daresay  things  were 
best  as  they  were.  I  daresay  I  could  not  have  acted 
otherwise.  Yet  I  shall  always  feel  there  was  truth 
in  his  reproach,  "If  only  you  good  girls  were  not 
quite  so  good!"  How  I  wish  things,  without  being 
vicious,  could  be  different! 

Well,  Boris  is  dead,  but  I  am  still  alive.  And  if 
I  am  to  be  true  to  that  truest  moment  in  his  com- 


90  The  Camomile 

pany  when  through  him  I  knew  what  I  ought  to  be 
doing,  I  shall  have  to  hurry  up  and  do  it.  It  isn't 
easy. 

January  22. 

"It  joys  me  that  I  ever  was  ordained 
To  have  a  being,  and  to  live  'mongst  men, 
Which  is  a  fearful  living  and  a  poor  one. 
Let  a  man  think  truly  on't — 
To  have  the  toil  and  griefs  of  fourscore  years 
Put  up  in  a  white  sheet,  tied  with  two  knots." 

What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  quotation  outside 
of  Shakespeare?  And  what  should  we  do  without 
the  minor  poets  that  our  good  Dr.  Sturrock  despises 
so  much?  The  other  day  I  happened  to  mention 
John  Davidson  to  him,  and  this  is  what  he  said,  in 
a  playful  but  condescending  tone,  "I  fear  that 
Browning  has  spoiled  me  for  the  little  people!" 
Bow-wow! 

January  25.  This  morning  I  wrote  in  my  Room 
without  a  fire  till  my  right  hand  was  stiff  and  blue 
with  cold.  Then  I  went  in  to  the  Mitchell,  and 
walked  all  the  way  to  warm  myself.  There  was 
a  bad  fog  on.  Everything  in  town  was  filthy  and 
choky,  friendly,  however,  as  things  are  in  a  fog,  so 
that  in  the  common  affliction  you  feel  you  can  speak 


The  Camomile  91 

to  any  one,  and  couldn't  be  offended  if  any  one 
spoke  to  you. 

I  am  in  the  middle  of  Jude  the  Obscure,  but  had 
forgotten  the  catalogue  number  so  I  had  to  turn  it 
up  again  before  I  could  fill  hi  my  slip.  As  I  stood 
before  Vol.  F-H  of  the  Catalogue,  a  man  I  have  long 
ago  nicknamed  "Don  John"  passed  from  Vol.  A-C 
to  one  on  my  other  side,  but  something  in  the  way 
he  glanced  at  my  volume  made  me  think  it  was  really 
the  one  he  wanted.  As  it  happened,  in  passing  be- 
hind me  he  knocked  slightly  against  me,  and  he 
begged  my  pardon  in  such  a  nice,  surprisingly  edu- 
cated voice  that  I  asked  him  if  it  wasn't  Vol.  F-H 
that  he  wanted.  Somehow  after  that  we  got  into 
a  conversation  about  Hardy,  and  I  soon  realized 
that  "Don  John"  was  a  scholar  with  a  practised 
mind  and  that  all  my  ideas  were  crude  and  school- 
girlish  to  a  degree.  It  isn't  that  he  in  the  least  tries 
to  make  one  feel  his  superiority.  It  simply  ema- 
nates from  him.  Now  I  wish  we  had  spoken  to 
each  other  before.  He  is  nearly  always  in  the  li- 
brary, so  I  expect  he  is  writing  a  book  for  which 
research  is  needed.  He  is  quite  middle-aged  and 
looks  poor.  He  always  keeps  his  hat  and  ulster 
on  while  bedsits  or  still  oftener  stands  about  read- 
ing. To-day  when  he  begged  my  pardon,  he  lifted 


92  The  Camomile 

his  hat,  and  for  the  first  time  I  saw  him  for  a 
moment  without  it.  It  was  rather  a  shock  to  see 
how  bald  he  was.  I  don't  suppose  our  talk  to-day 
lasted  longer  than  five  minutes,  but  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  knew  I  was  speaking  with  a  man  for 
whom  books  really  live  and  matter.  Even  with  Dr. 
Sturrock  I  get  the  feeling  that  books  are  merely 
either  useful  to  ministers,  or  a  kind  of  general  adorn- 
ment to  life. 

Sunday,  January  27.  It  would  take  a  novel  by 
Henry  James  to  set  forth  the  subtle  relations  be- 
tween Miss  McRaith  and  myself.  Probably  Aunt 
Harry  has  been  talking  to  her  about  me,  and  I 
rather  suspect  is  arranging  to  go  away  for  the  night 
occasionally  so  that  Miss  McRaith  may  try  to  in- 
fluence me  for  my  soul's  good,  and  afterwards  re- 
port on  the  result!  Anyhow,  I  am  most  careful  not 
to  contradict  the  lady.  This  disappoints  her,  be- 
cause it  means  that  her  tests  have  failed.  She  must 
feel  rather  like  a  chemist  who  keeps  touching  some 
stone  with  certain  acids  under  the  action  of  which 
the  stone  should  fizz  or  change.  But,  no!  The 
wretched  mineral  shows  no  reaction  whatever!  She 
is  always  devising  new  stratagems  by  which  to  get  at 
me.  I,  however,  am  a  very  alert  stone  indeed!  She 


The  Camomile  93 

and  Aunt  Harry  and  I  went  to  a  little  meeting  (in- 
time)  where  the  speaker  was  a  Converted  Actress 
(this  a  propos  of  my  performance  at  school).  I  had 
consented  to  go  out  of  sheer  curiosity  to  see  what 
a  Converted  Actress  looked  like,  but  the  whole  thing 
was  of  course  a  farce.  The  C.  A.  can  never  have 
been  good-looking  enough  for  the  back  row  in  the 
chorus,  and  for  anything  more  ambitious  had  not 
yet  learned  how  to  speak.  She  talked  about  the 
"droring-room"  and  "religious  idears"  and  had  no 
notion  of  how  to  stand  or  hold  herself.  In  fact,  I 
know  of  a  good  half  dozen  traveling  evangelists 
(male  ones  especially)  who  were  never  on  the  stage 
but  could  give  her  points  on  her  former  alleged 
profession. 

After  the  meeting  the  C.  A.,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing me  during  the  hymns,  came  up  and  said,  "Can 
you  sing?"  What  she  wanted  to  ask  of  course  was, 
"Why  don't  you  sing  the  hymns  with  the  rest?"  But 
she  merely  simpered  and  asked,  "Can  you  sing?" 
No  one  will  ever  know  the  self-control  that  was 
needed  to  prevent  my  replying,  "No,  can  you  art?" 
Actually  what  I  said  was,  "Yes,  at  times." 

January  31.  You  will  say  I  am  obsessed  by  Miss 
McRaith.  So  would  you  be  if  you  had  to  spend  any 


94  The  Camomile 

time  with  her.  The  wretched  thing  is  that  I  can't 
help  feeling  sorry  for  her  even  when  I  most  dis- 
like her.  She  seems  always  to  be  saying:  "You 
are  having  a  fine  time,  yet  I,  who  have  given  up  all 
for  the  sake  of  Jesus,  am  grudged  the  few  simple 
and  innocent  pleasures  I  might  with  a  free  mind 
enjoy."  This  was  how  she  looked  when  I  showed 
her  my  fawn  hat  and  dress.  Her  expression  said: 
"Though  I  am  devoting  myself  to  the  poor,  7  like 
pretty  hats  as  well  as  any  one.  But  of  course  no- 
body thinks  of  that,  and  I  have  no  time  to  trim 
them  for  myself."  Or,  when  she  remarked  on  my 
morocco  attache  case  and  I  said  it  was  a  present 
from  Ronald,  she  looked:  "How  nice  it  would  be  if 
some  one  would  give  me  a  present,  but  that  is  hardly 
likely!"  So  that  you  feel  quite  guilty  if  you  don't 
hand  the  blooming  thing  over  there  and  then!  I 
wish  I  could  be  rude  to  her  as  subtly  and  yet  as 
effectively  as  Eliza.  When  Miss  McRaith  conducts 
prayers  (as  she  always  does  when  she  stays  here) 
Eliza  either  pretends  she  can't  see  to  read  her  verse 
in  turn,  or  she  reads  it  so  delicately  that  you  would 
think  she  was  playing  spillikens  with  her  new  teeth. 
It  is  quite  extraordinary  the  contempt  she  manages 
to  convey  in  this  manner.  No  one  fails  to  understand 
it,  and  Aunt  Harry  is  furious  but  helpless. 


The  Camomile  95 

February  4.  Don  John  and  I  have  had  several 
more  talks,  always  quite  short  ones  and  only  about 
books.  I  ventured  to  tell  him  what  a  dark  impres- 
sion Hardy's  novels  make,  not  so  much  on  my  mind 
when  I  am  reading  them,  as  in  my  memory  when 
I  recall  any  one  of  them.  Also  how,  in  the  same 
way,  Hardy's  "stocks  and  stones" — that  is  to  say,  all 
the  bare  heaths,  great  rocks  and  wind-driven  trees 
that  he  so  peerlessly  describes — are  in  memory  so 
all-important  that  they  overshadow,  and  in  time 
almost  blot  out,  the  mere  human  characters  of  his 
stories.  Don  John  (he  hasn't  told  me  his  real  name 
yet)  explained  this,  wonderfully  I  thought,  by  say- 
ing that  it  was  because  in  Hardy's  view  the  stocks 
and  stones  are  the  primal  things.  Out  of  them  his 
frail  human  figures  spring,  but  stay  only  for  a  mo- 
ment to  execute  a  few  tragic  gestures  before  being 
once  more  absorbed  into  the  stony  mystery.  Don 
John  finds  this  a  fault  as  well  as  a  quality  in  the 
novels,  but  a  pure  virtue  in  the  poems.  He  thinks, 
too,  that  in  the  novels  Hardy  uses  the  long  arm  of 
coincidence  "quite  indefensibly,"  and  that  many  of 
the  stories  are  marred  by  that  "wallowing  in  miser- 
able accidents,"  which  I  have  often,  I  see  now,  re- 
sented myself  without  having  been  able  to  put  my 
finger  on  the  cause  of  my  resentment. 


96  The  Camomile 

For  Shaw  Don  John  will  not  hear  a  good  word. 
He  simply  dismisses  him  with  the  remark:  "Shaw 
knows  nothing  whatever  about  human  beings,  so 
what  he  says  about  them,  or  makes  them  say,  can 
have  no  permanent  value."  He  pronounces  human 
as  if  it  were  spelled  "yuman,"  which  I  think  sounds 
so  funny.  Yet  his  voice  and  accent  are  both  most 
beautifully  English  without  being  the  least  bit 
Cockney.  Perhaps  it  is  the  right  way  to  pronounce 
it — Yumanity!  But  it  makes  me  laugh. 

I  wonder  if  he  will  ever  tell  me  anything  about 
himself  or  the  book  he  is  writing?  He  is  beyond 
any  sort  of  question  a  gentleman,  but  he  gives  the 
impression  that  it  is  rather  a  long  time  since  he 
led  a  gentleman's  life  in  any  material  sense.  I 
feel  he  would  be  uncomfortable  if  I  were  to  ask 
him  home  to  tea.  Not  that  I  can  as  a  rule,  with 
any  comfort  to  myself,  ask  people  home.  More's 
the  pity! 

February  11.  A  very  uncomfortable,  but  I  sup- 
pose flattering,  thing  happened  to-day.  I  was  play- 
ing to  the  assembled  school,  had  just  finished  the 
Minuet  from  Bach's  Third  French  Suite,  and  was 
in  the  middle  of  a  Purcell  Minuet,  when  the  hall 
door  opened  and  in  stalked,  of  all  people, 


The  Camomile  97 

Miss  Hepburn.  She  had  the  dreadful  suffused 
look  that  she  gets  sometimes,  all  over  her  fore- 
head and  eyes,  and  a  big  vein  stuck  out  in  her 
forehead  like  a  root  of  ivy.  Everybody  stared  at 
her  of  course,  not  knowing  who  she  was  or  what 
she  was  after,  and  some  of  the  smallest  children,  who 
sit  at  the  very  front,  shrank  back  in  terror.  She 
is  enormously  tall  and  hulks  forward  in  a  curious 
way  from  the  shoulders.  She  said  nothing  what- 
ever, but  just  stood  and  glowered  at  us  all,  and  Miss 
Sutherland  looked  inquiringly  at  me  as  if  I  were 
the  person  who  should  act.  Though  she  is  the  Head, 
Miss  Sutherland  is  a  very  timid  woman.  Besides, 
it  happens  that  she  knows  something  of  Miss  Hep- 
burn's reputation,  also  of  her  queer  sort  of  friend- 
ship for  me. 

So  I  got  up  and  went  to  shake  hands  with  Miss 
Hepburn,  but  she  put  both  her  hands  behind  her 
back. 

"Do  you  want  me  for  anything?"  I  asked.  And 
with  the  greatest  vehemence  she  replied:  "Yes,  I 
want  you,  and  the  world  wants  you  for  one  thing 
only,  and  here  you  are  frittering  your  strength  away 
in  rubbish!" 

I  saw  then  what  she  had  come  for.  I  think  I 
told  you  that  she  had  got  it  into  her  head  ever  since 


98  The  Camomile 

I  was  in  her  class  at  school  that  I  ought  to  be  a 
writer.  She  was  angry  when  I  first  told  her  I  was 
going  in  for  music,  but  she  prophesied  that  the  mu- 
sical phase  wouldn't  last  long  and  might  help  me  by 
way  of  experience.  Since  I  have  come  home  from 
Germany,  though,  and  settled  down  to  teaching  mu- 
sic, she  has  been  ruder  and  ruder  to  me  with  every 
opportunity,  and  now  it  had  come  to  a  head. 

"We  can  discuss  that  afterwards  by  ourselves," 
I  said  quite  pleasantly.  "I  still  have  to  play  a  Chopin 
Minuet  to  the  girls.  Then  I'll  come  with  you."  And 
I  asked  her  if  she  would  rather  wait  where  she  was 
or  go  into  the  lobby  till  I  was  finished.  I  devoutly 
hoped  she  would  go  to  the  lobby,  but  she  said  she 
would  stay  in  the  hall,  and  she  sat  herself  down 
right  in  the  front  row,  the  children  there  making 
more  room  for  her  than  was  quite  polite. 

When  I  had  played  the  Minuet  (very  badly  in- 
deed) Miss  Sutherland  whispered  to  me  that  I  could 
go  without  any  more  "lecture,"  so  I  made  to  take 
Miss  Hepburn  off  with  all  speed.  But  before  I  could 
get  her  out  of  the  place  she  let  fly  several  loud  re- 
marks, which  every  one  must  have  heard. 

"You  are  no  musician,"  she  said.  "You  are  a 
prostitute,  that's  what  you  are.  You  are  prostitut- 
ing the  talents  God  has  given  you."  And  so  on  after 


The  Camomile  99 

the  same  style.  I  just  caught  sight  of  Miss  Suther- 
land's red,  shocked  face  at  the  word  "prostitute," 
as  I  dragged  Miss  Hepburn  out  of  the  hall. 

At  first  when  we  got  down  to  the  street,  where  it 
was  starting  to  rain,  we  went  for  one  another  like 
a  pair  of  fishwives,  but  I  couldn't  keep  it  up  long. 
For  one  thing,  poor  dear,  she  is  wrong  in  the  head. 
For  another,  the  rain  soon  cooled  me.  For  yet  an- 
other, cutting  out  such  words  as  genius,  or  even 
talent,  something  within  myself  whispers  that  about 
me  she  may  be  essentially  right.  I  am  doing  the 
wrong  thing.  I  may  be  trying  to  run  away  from  my 
appointed  work.  What  she  does  not  realize  is  that 
I  have  such  terribly  strong  and  logical  reasons  for 
doubt. 

In  the  end  we  went  to  a  shop  and  drank  coffee  to- 
gether, and  for  the  first  time  she  invited  me  to  her 
house.  I'm  to  go  there  for  supper  on  Thursday  week, 
and  to  meet  her  old  father  who,  she  always  declares, 
is  a  genius  and  has  a  wonderful  library.  Many  a 
time  I  have  wondered  why  she  has  never  asked  me 
there  before^but  up  to  now  she  has  only  taken  me 
out  for  tea  in  a  shop. 

Sunday,  February  17.  Don  John  smells  a  bit,  as 
if  he  slept  hi  his  clothes,  i.e.,  as  I  suppose  Balzac 


ioo  The  Camomile 

smelt.  I  read  in  Balzac's  life  that  he  used  to  go 
on  writing  without  stopping  to  wash  or  change  his 
clothes — merely  eating  at  intervals  and  throwing 
himself  as  he  was  upon  his  bed  to  sleep — till  he  was 
fairly  covered  with  vermin.  What  a  thrilling  and 
awe-inspiring  power  of  concentration  must  have  been 
his!  Yet  when  I  told  Madge  Bruce  about  it  she 
said  it  was  so  disgusting  that  it  almost  made  her 
"puke."  Myself,  I  don't  think  I  mind  dirt  much  if 
there  is  a  good  reason  for  it,  like  that,  or  like  pov- 
erty. Cleanliness  is  very  nice,  and  I'm  pretty  clean 
myself,  having  been  trained  up  so  and  got  used  to 
it.  Yet  at  times  I  think  we  perhaps  lose  something, 
and  even  cheat  one  another,  by  being  so  desperately 
clean.  Certain  blind  men,  they  say,  retain,  or  re- 
gain, the  primitive  sense  of  smell  in  its  full  deli- 
cacy, so  that  on  coming  into  a  room  and  meeting 
strangers  they  can  tell  by  the  mere  aroma  of  each 
person,  before  any  word  has  been  said,  whether 
they  are  going  to  like  or  dislike,  trust  or  fear  the 
new  acquaintance.  But  surely  people  like  Mrs. 
Bruce,  Madge's  mother,  must  quite  wash  away  their 
individual  aroma?  I  should  not  mind  that  myself 
(not  being  blind)  if  they  were  not  so  uppish  about 
it,  as  if  it  were  some  great  and  solemn  virtue  in 
them.  Then  there  is  the  other  side  of  it.  On  a 


The  Camomile  iioi 

hot  day  Madge  goes  through  real  agony  lest  any 
one,  particularly  any  man,  should  be  aware  that 
she  is  perspiring.  One  day,  to  tease  her,  I  said  a 
man  once  told  me  that  at  a  dance,  girls  with  her 
coloring  always  smelt  like  steak  and  onions.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  her  face!  I  went  on  to  tell 
her  that  the  same  man  said  he  would  never  marry 
a  woman  till  he  knew  the  smell  of  her  sweat,  and 
that  it  was  quite  possible  for  a  man  to  marry  a 
lovely  looking  girl  and  then  to  find,  because  he  had 
omitted  to  take  this  precaution,  that  he  didn't  like 
her  a  bit.  It  was  Boris  Fabian — as  I  daresay  you 
have  already  divined — that  told  me  these  things. 
And  he  told  me  too  (what  you  and  I  had  often 
wondered  about)  why  that  plain  girl,  Frieda  Bun- 
sen,  was  so  frightfully  attractive  to  all  the  men. 
"Frieda,"  he  said,  "has  such  a  strong  and  beauti- 
ful animal  smell."  It  is  true,  of  course,  that  our 
Boris  had  a  marvelous  nose  (I  remember  in  the 
woods  after  rain  he  would  get  me  to  lead  him  along 
blindfold,  w.hile  he  would  tell  me,  merely  by  their 
scent,  which  kind  of  trees  we  were  passing),  but 
he  was  so  very  sure  of  his  explanation  about  Frieda 
where  other  men  were  concerned  that  I  can  feel 
no  doubt  it  was  the  true  one.  Well,  I  told  Miss 
Madge  all  this  and  she  blushed — as  she  does  when 


IO2  The  Camomile 

she  is  truly  scandalized — almost  black.  She  said 
it  was  horrible,  then  that  it  was  not  true,  and  she 
asked  who  the  man  was  that  told  me.  I  replied,  "A 
Polish  boy  who  was  a  genius."  At  that  her  face 
cleared  and  she  began  laughing.  "Oh,  only  one  of 
your  dirty  Germans!"  she  said.  "What  a  relief!" 
As  if,  if  it  is  true,  it  mattered  whether  the  infor- 
mation reached  her  through  a  foreign  or  an  Eng- 
lish source!  Or  as  if,  anyhow,  anything  Boris 
Fabian  ever  did  or  said  in  his  life  were  not  clean 
compared  with  the  way  in  which  Willie,  Madge's 
eldest  brother,  pushes  one's  feet  under  the  table  at 
card  games,  when  there  is  no  means  of  retaliation 
or  escape,  because  his  father  and  mother  are  pres- 
ent! But  what  is  the  use  of  arguing  with  provin- 
cials! 

All  this,  however,  "on  smells  and  odors,"  as  Mon- 
taigne has  it,  is  off  the  point.  What  I  set  out  to 
tell  you  when  I  was  carried  off  my  course,  was  that 
yesterday  at  the  Library  Don  John  for  the  first 
time  told  me  some  things — very  few  it  is  true — about 
himself.  He  is  a  classical  coach  and  goes  there  every 
day,  partly  to  look  through  the  advertisements.  He 
also  reviews  books — mostly  historical,  foreign  and 
philosophical.  And  he  is  writing  a  book!  It  is  to 
be  a  "History  of  Free  Thought  in  the  Middle  Ages." 


The  Camomile  103 

(So  perhaps  he  is  himself  a  free-thinker,  but  I  have 
not  asked  him  this  yet) .  I  truly  do  not  think  he  eats 
enough.  He  is  so  fearfully  thin,  when  you  come  to 
look  closely  at  him,  that  the  bones  at  his  temples 
are  as  sharp  as  the  backs  of  knives,  and  the  tem- 
ples themselves  look  like  little  cups.  If  I  am  ever 
in  the  Library  at  about  one  o'clock  I  notice  he  pulls 
out  a  paper  bag  and  munches  what  looks  to  me  like 
dry  bread.  One  day  I  exclaimed  quite  aghast,  "Is 
that  all  you  take  for  lunch?"  But  he  only  smiled 
(usually  he  is  rather  grave),  and  told  me  he  could 
not  work  on  a  full  stomach.  He  says  that  he  goes 
out  later  in  the  afternoon  for  a  cup  of  tea.  What 
coaching  he  has  seems  to  be  at  night. 

I  had  already  told  him  about  my  being  an  orphan, 
about  my  music-teaching,  and  about  my  writing  and 
Mother's.  Of  my  writing  he  said:  "I  see.  It  is  like 
the  camomile — the  more  it  is  trodden  on  the  faster 
it  grows."  And  when  I  asked  him  who  had  said 
that,  he  smiled  again  and  said,  "An  observant  fat 
man  called  Falstaff."  When  he  smiles  like  that  he 
makes  you  long  tremendously  to  tell  him  every  sin- 
gle thing  about  yourself  and  your  troubles,  just  to 
get  his  comments  and  to  lay  your  soul  bare  before 
his  sad,  sunken,  truthful  eyes.  Surely  it  is  men 
like  him  that  ought  to  be  ministers?  He  gives  you 


iO4  The  Camomile 

quite  a  different  feeling  from  Dr.  Sturrock.  I  can't 
explain  it,  but  there  is  something  impersonal  .  .  . 
no  one  would  dream  of  being  "gone"  on  him.  I  have 
told  him  about  my  Room,  and  perhaps  he  will  come 
there  one  day  to  have  tea  with  me.  But  it  would  not 
be  much  fun  in  this  cruel,  biting  weather. 

February  2o.  Laura's  wedding  is  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  Dr.  Sturrock  is  to  marry  her  in  church, 
and  both  Madge  and  I,  besides  Sheila  Dudgeon  and 
a  whole  squad  of  the  Sterling  girls,  are  bridesmaids. 
The  thing  is  to  be  done  in  style  and  every  one  has 
been  invited.  /  should  not  choose  to  be  married  so. 
But  perhaps  this  is  partly  jealousy.  Because  after 
all  it  might  not  be  bad  to  be  the  shining  center  of 
such  a  thrilling  occasion,  and  if  one  did  the  other 
thing  (creeping  off  to  the  Sheriff,  etc.)  one's  friends 
might  think  one  was  ashamed  of  the  bridegroom  or 
something.  Besides,  you  could  keep  your  secret 
just  as  secret  between  the  two  of  you,  perhaps  more 
so,  for  all  the  people  buzzing  round  and  criticizing. 
Then  there  are  the  presents.  I  don't  see  how  any 
one  in  her  senses  can  object  to  getting  heaps  of 
lovely  things  given  to  her.  (When  it  came  to  the 
bit  I  had  quite  a  struggle  to  part  with  my  glass 


The  Camomile  105 

candlesticks!)    I  don't  know.    I  must  think  it  out 
seriously. 

Laura's  is  to  be  a  pink  and  white  wedding.  All 
the  bridesmaids  are  to  be  in  deepening  shades  of 
pink,  the  Sterling  girls  being  so  fair  will  be  in  very 
pale  rose,  but  Madge  and  I,  who  are  to  stand  next 
to  Laura,  are  wearing  the  same  strong  shade  of  my 

dress  in  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  which  every  one 

i 
remembers  as  a  success,  and  it  should  suit  Madge 

well  too,  as  she  is  so  dark.  (It  was  just  a  kind  of 
freak  that  it  suited  me.)  Laura's  dress  is  dead 
white,  without  a  touch  of  what  is  called  "relief," 
and  she  will  carry  white  roses  and  lilies.  Madge 
and  I  carry  pink  roses.  You  ought  to  see  the  pres- 
ents !  The  Dudgeons  being  so  rich  themselves,  peo- 
ple have  all  felt  they  must  give  things  that  will  bear 
inspection,  whereas  at  the  wedding  of  a  poor  couple, 
any  old  plated  butter  dish  will  pass  muster! 
Laura  may  not  be  happy.  She  is  certainly  thrilled. 
Her  eyes  are^wonderful,  and  she  is  perfectly  sweet 
to  every  one  as  if  she  were  going  to  die  soon.  She 
keeps  us  all  at  arm's  length,  though.  Madge  is  dis- 
appointed at  the  lack  of  confidences. 

February  21.  The  Hepburns'  is  certainly  an  un- 
earthly kind  of  household.  They  live  (without  any 


io6  The  Camomile 

servant  or  so  much  as  a  visiting  charwoman)  in  the 
ground-floor  flat  of  an  ancient  but  rather  noble- 
looking  house  off  Cathedral  Street,  which  is  a  windy, 
gray  hog's  back  hill  running  into  the  heart  of  the 
town.  I  supped  there  to-night  and  met  the  old  fa- 
ther. Though  Miss  Hepburn  keeps  telling  you  that 
he  is  a  genius,  she  treats  him  like  dirt.  I'm  sure  he 
was  glad  when  it  was  time  for  him  to  get  away  to 
his  newspaper  office.  He  is  a  compositor. 

But  first  I  must  tell  you  about  the  supper  itself. 
We  had  roast  fowl  (I  happen  to  know  what  fowls 
cost  just  now),  new  potatoes  and  asparagus!  We 
had  a  chocolate  souffle,  and  the  best  of  fruits  and 
sweets.  We  had  champagne !  And  on  the  middle  of 
the  table  there  was  a  bowl  of  wonderful  hothouse 
flowers.  When  I  was  ill-mannered  enough  to  show 
some  astonishment  at  this  really  very  surprising 
"spread,"  she  said,  "Genius  deserves  the  best,  though 
it  rarely  gets  it!"  I  had  the  feeling  that  when  they 
were  alone  she  and  Mr.  Hepburn  had  bread  and 
cheese  meals,  with  perhaps  an  occasional  box  of  sar- 
dines as  a  treat,  and  that  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
thanks  to  this  party,  they  would  have  to  go  with- 
out the  sardines.  But  in  the  circumstances 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  make  believe 
as  best  I  could  that  I  was  enjoying  everything.  This 


The  Camomile  107 

was  not  very  easy,  as  old  Mr.  Hepburn  made  a  mere 
pretense  of  eating  and  hardly  spoke  a  word  through- 
out the  meal.  Neither  did  he  drink  anything,  and 
every  time  Miss  Hepburn  poured  champagne  into 
my  glass  or  her  own  he  pulled  out  a  little  green  bot- 
tle of  very  powerful  smelling-salts  and  took  a  deep 
sniff  at  them. 

I  must  say  Miss  Hepburn  made  up  for  her  fa- 
ther's quietness  by  being  more  talkative  than  I  have 
ever  seen  or  even  imagined  her.  She  fairly  shouted 
with  laughter,  throwing  her  untidy  head  back  wildly, 
and  drinking  up  the  champagne  as^ast  as  she 
poured  it  out.  She  told  us  more  than  once  that  she 
had  "warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life,"  and 
that  now  she  "must  depart."  Strange  and  rather 
reckless  she  nearly  always  looks,  but  to-night  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  that  she  may  well  have  been  won- 
derfully handsome  as  a  young  girl.  Her  eyes  are 
still  fine  and  have  a  beautiful  tawny  color.  I  don't 
think  she  can  ever  have  had  a  good  figure.  Her 
bones  are  too  big,  her  shoulders  come  dreadfully 
forward,  and  she  is  too  tall,  rather  like  a  man 
dressed  up  in  woman's  clothes.  Her  father  is  just 
the  opposite.  He  is  small  and  very  white  in  the 
face,  almost  waxy,  with  small  hands  and  feet  and 
a  thin  faded  gray  beard  through  which  his  pallid  chin 


io8  The  Camomile 

appears.  His  voice  and  manner  are  very,  very  quiet. 
But  for  his  beard  he  might  pass  for  a  delicate  lit- 
tle old  woman. 

In  their  love  of  books,  however,  the  two  are  united, 
though  I  think  it  is  the  actual  volume,  the  binding 
and  paper  and  print,  that  he  cares  most  for,  while 
she  values  nothing  but  the  author's  thoughts.  Ruby, 
what  a  library!  I  was  thankful  when  supper  came 
to  an  end,  and  he  showed  me  some  of  his  books.  In 
Edinburgh  he  used  to  have  an  old  book-shop  near 
Parliament  Close,  and  he  says  it  was  his  constant 
affliction  that  his  "pets"  too  soon  found  purchasers. 
He  told  me  that  what  he  has  now  is  "a  mere  rem- 
nant" of  the  library  he  would  have  possessed  if 
things  "had  gone  more  fortuitously"  with  him.  It 
was  a  delight  to  watch  his  small,  sensitive  hands 
touching  and  turning  over  book  after  book.  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  came  to  his  shop,  he  said. 

He  became  quite  talkative  then,  and  so  interest- 
ing that  I  wished  I  could  have  noted  down  all  he 
told  me  word  for  word.  I  asked  him  about  Steven- 
son. "Stevenson  has  the  name,"  he  said,  ".  .  .  cliv- 
ver,  not  a  doubt  of  it,  though  I  nivver  had  much 
notion  o'  thae  essays  o'  his.  A  bit  silly,  I  aye  thocht, 
tho'  some  folk  are  daft  aboot  them.  ...  I  mind  him 
fine — a  delicate-like  lad.  He  used  to  look  into  the 


The  Camomile  109 

shop  comin'  back  and  forrit  to  Parliament  House  . . . 
a  guid  conceit  o'  himsel',  I  thocht.  Mphm!  He 
bocht  a  book  whiles.  .  .  . 

"No,  Henley  nivver  came  my  way,  tho'  I  kent 
him  well  by  sight — a  coorse  lump  o'  a  man.  .  .  . 
Edinburgh's  a  wee  bit  place — ye  canna  help  seein' 
folk.  Being  Glasgow  yourself,  ye  wadna  like  the 
life  yonder,  Miss  Carstairs — gey  parochial. 

"There  was  Laurence  Oliphant  too.  He  was  be- 
fore your  time,  though.  I  mind  when  he  was  stand- 
ing for  Parliament.  A  brilliant  man,  bu^unbalanced, 
ye  understand — got  daft-like  notions.  But,  ah!  a 
brilliant  mind,  Miss  Carstairs,  a  noble  mind! 

"...  I  aince  had  a  first  edition  o't.  I  sold  it 
for  thirty  shillings — thirty  pieces  of  silver,  aye!  I 
wish  I  had/kep'  it.  It's  worth  a  lot  more  now.  .  .  . 
I've  Quaritch  here.  .  .  .  Aye,  seven  guineas  at 
Sotheby's  .  .  .  that  was  in  1892.  It  fetches  far 
more  now.  This  Quaritch  is  clean  oot  o'  date.  I 
keep  it,  but  it's  vera  little  use.  It's  like  everything 
in  this  house.  ...  I  cannot  keep  things  up." 

When  he  had  gone  I  helped  Miss  Hepburn  to  clear 
and  wash  up,  and  she  told  me  that  her  father  had 
lost  his  Edinburgh  shop  through  "drink  and  drugs." 
For  years,  she  says,  he  used  to  soak  his  tobacco 
in  laudanum,  and  had  such  a  craving  for  that  and 


no  The  Camomile 

for  drink  that  she  and  her  mother  would  often  go  to 
their  wardrobe  and  find  that  he  had  pawned  all  their 
clothes.  Then,  when  his  books  had  to  be  sold  up, 
he  suddenly  reformed.  Now  he  does  not  even  smoke, 
but  when  the  craving  for  drink  comes  over  him  he 
takes  out  his  smelling  salts  and  sniffs.  When  the 
smelling  salts  were  explained  I  felt  unhappy  about 
the  champagne,  but  she  was  perfectly  callous  about 
it.  Who  would  have  thought  to  look  at  him  that 
he  would  have  had  such  a  strong  will?  For  the 
rest  of  the  evening  Miss  Hepburn  and  I  kept  off 
literary  topics  as  much  as  we  could,  and  she  showed 
me  a  collection  she  has  of  photographs  of  early 
Italian  and  Flemish  pictures.  I  had  no  idea  that 
she  had  traveled  so  much,  but  it  appears  that,  being 
a  school  teacher  and  having  long  summer  holidays, 
she  has  scrimped  herself  in  everything  else  so  that 
she  might  never  miss  a  summer  on  the  Continent. 
When  she  kept  exclaiming  at  supper  that  she  had 
warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life,  I  felt  it 
extremely  pathetic  because  I  could  hardly  fancy  she 
was  doing  more  than  talking  through  her  hat.  But 
there  was  something  about  her  as  she  showed  me 
her  pictures  that  made  me  think  it  was  myself  that 
was  the  fool.  And  now  I  say,  who  knows?  How 


The  Camomile  in 

strange  and  wonderful,  past  finding  out,  is  every 
human  being! 

February  22.  Laura  had  a  lovely,  sunny,  frosty 
day  for  her  wedding.  Of  the  wedding  itself  what  am 
I  to  tell  you? 

It  "went  off  well,"  as  they  say.  All  the  arrange- 
ments down  to  the  last  frill  had  been  planned  by 
Laura  herself,  and  our  Laura  is  a  bonny  planner. 
Almost  everybody  looked  their  best  and  said  the 
right  things.  Laura  herself  looked  helMnost  beau- 
tiful, but  also  her  most  nun-like.  I  don't  know 
if  any  one  else  had  the  same  feeling,  but  all  the 
while,  from  the  first  moment  of  her  appearance  at 
the  church,  to  the  last,  when  she  ran  out  of  the 
house  in  her  gray  dress  under  a  blizzard  of  rice,  I 
had  the  impression  that  she  was  taking  the  veil.  I 
believe  it  must  have  been  this  alone  that  saved  the 
whole  performance  from  being,  like  most  of  the  wed- 
dings I  have  been  at  up  till  now,  blatantly  middle 
class,  and  somehow  a  little  disgusting.  She  was  very 
pale  and  perfectly  controlled,  and  her  eyes  shone 
marvelously,  but  with  abnegation  I  felt  sure;  with 
abnegation  and  its  excitement,  not  with  love.  She 
was  a  lamb  going  of  its  own  free  will  to  the  slaughter, 


ii2  The  Camomile 

and  by  its  own  request  decked  for  the  sacrifice  with 
white  roses.  But  what  matchless  egoism  is  in  this 
lamblikeness!  I  watched  her  fascinated  but  observ- 
ant, and  I  could  have  sworn  that  no  single  thought 
of  her  bridegroom  crossed  her  mind.  Unless  in- 
deed she  had  an  image  of  him  as  the  butcher  ap- 
pointed by  fate.  Poor  Wilfred  kept  mopping  his 
face,  which  was  red  and  shiny.  When  I  said  almost 
everybody  looked  their  best,  I  was  thinking 
of  him  as  the  exception.  He  had  cut  himself 
in  shaving  that  morning,  and  two  absurd  bits  of 
cotton  wool  stuck  out  of  his  chin.  Even  when  the 
newly  wedded  pair  were  arm  in  arm  and  standing 
together,  Laura  managed,  by  her  expression  alone, 
to  detach  herself  from  Wilfred  in  the  most  extraor- 
dinary manner.  Though  Laura  is  my  friend  and 
I  can't  help  loving  her,  I  did  yesterday  feel  a  real 
loathing  of  her.  If  she  hadn't  pulled  it  off  so  per- 
fectly, if  she  had  once,  even  for  a  moment,  looked 
scared  or  sad  or  flustered,  it  wouldn't  have  been 
so  bad.  But  that  beautiful  resignation  with  just 
a  hint  of  tragedy  .  .  .  Pjui  tausend!  Mrs.  Sterling 
of  course  wept  bucketfuls  but  looked  extremely 
haPPy>  and  the  girls  were  in  tremendous  spirits,  each 
one  handsomer  than  the  other,  though  none  with 
Laura's  captivating  aloofness.  One  felt  they  would 


The  Camomile  '113 

all  "go  off"  now  like  hot  cakes.  I  will  admit  to  you, 
Ruby,  that  in  spite  of  these  my  malicious  observa- 
tions, I  realized  very  strongly  during  the  ceremony 
that  it  is  as  a  rule  a  disgrace  for  a  woman  never  to 
lose  her  virginity.  Not  a  disgrace  because  of  what 
people  say,  but  for  her  own  inmost  self.  I  couldn't 
bear  not  to  get  married! 

February  26.  We  are  going  down  to  Arrochar  on 
Loch  Long  for  Easter  week,  Aunt  Harsj^and  Ron- 
ald and  I.  Aunt  Harry  has  had  one  cold  on  top 
of  another  so  needs  a  change.  Ronald  and  I  shall 
be  glad  to  go.  We  both  love  Arrochar. 

To-day  was  Aunt  Harry's  birthday  and  before 
breakfast  we  gave  her  the  fur  'coat.  She  was  simply 
overwhelmed,  pretending  to  be  shocked  at  our  ex- 
travagance, but  all  the  while  examining  it  closely 
at  the  seams  and  so  on  to  see  if  it  was  as  good  as 
it  appeared,  and  stroking  the  fur  as  if  she  loved 
the  feel  of  it.  I  often  think  that  if  Aunt  Harry's 
Natural  Man  were  to  have  full  play  she  would  be 
rather  a  dressy  lady,  or  anyhow  would  always  wrap 
herself  in  the  most  luxurious  materials.  She  never 
can  resist  stroking  any  stuff  that  has  a  rich  or 
smooth  surface,  and  as  she  does  so  her  whole  face 
softens  quite  unconsciously.  We  chose  a  coat  that 


H4  The  Camomile 

was  very  plain  outside — smoke  gray  cloth  without 
even  a  fur  collar — as  we  thought  she  might  find 
anything  else  too  showy.  But  the  fur  lining  is  the 
best  kind  of  gray  squirrel,  not  that  cheap  kind  that 
crackles  and  after  a  few  weeks  of  wear  tears  like 
paper.  She  put  it  on  as  soon  as  she  was  dressed 
and  looked  at  herself  a  long  time  in  her  wardrobe 
mirror.  To  our  surprise  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 
"Dear  children,"  she  said,  "I  seldom  speak  of 
it,  as  I  think  that  would  be  wrong.  God  wishes 
us  to  be  contented.  But  many  a  time  I  wish  my 
Maker  had  seen  fit  to  give  me  an  ampler  share  of 
good  looks." 

March  2.  Think  of  it!  Don  John  came  yester- 
day to  my  Room!  His  name  is  John  Barnaby  (so 
I  did  hit  on  his  Christian  name! ),  and  once  he  was — 
But  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning. 

Yesterday  happened  to  be  a  mild  and  sunny  day 
after  a  dreary  fortnight  of  wind  and  rain,  and  the 
library  was  intolerably  stuffy.  So  I  begged  him  to 
come  out  to  my  Room  and  he  rode  there  with  me 
on  the  top  of  the  car,  I  feeling  very  proud  of  my 
distinguished  visitor.  For  there  is  no  doubt  about 
it,  Don  John  is  the  most  learned  man  I  have  ever 
spoken  to.  And  the  great  thing  is  you  feel  he  knows 


The  Camomile  115 

Life  as  well.  This  indeed  is  why  he  seems  so  truly, 
deeply  learned,  because  his  knowledge  of  books  and 
history  and  things  has  never  at  any  point  got  de- 
tached from  his  everyday,  human  knowledge.  Such 
men,  I  feel,  ought  to  be  treated  like  kings.  They 
ought  to  roll  about  in  the  best  carriages  dressed  in 
simple  but  rich  and  dignified  clothes,  and  the  com- 
mon people  ought  to  be  made  to  bow  down  to  them. 
Instead  of  which  .  .  .  !  Oh,  it  does  make  me  sick! 
Well,  while  I  was  making  tea  at  the  Room  and 
wishing  it  was  nectar  and  ambrosia  to  be  worthy 
of  him,  he  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began  turning 
over  my  music  with  the  unmistakable  practised 
movements  of  one  who  understands  what  he  is 
handling.  Presently  he  began  striking  chord  after 
chord,  making  peculiar  progressions,  very  gently  but 
surely,  and  it  dawned  on  me  that  what  he  was  play- 
ing was  old  Church  music.  I  kept  as  still  as  a 
mouse  till  he  was  finished,  and  then  asked  what  it 
was,  and  he  told  me  it  was  out  of  a  Mass  by  Pergo- 
lesi.  In  the  thrilling  talk  that  followed  I  found  he 
knew  all  about  early  Church  music — the  old  scales 
and  intervals  and  everything — and  he  named,  one 
after  another,  Italian  composers  of  whom  I  had 
never  even  heard.  I  simply  sat  at  his  feet  and  drank 
it  in.  Afterwards  I  played  some  Purcell  for  him 


n6  The  Camomile 

and  the  Paradise  Toccata,  and  then  to  my  surprise 
and  delight  he  began  to  sing,  without  accompani- 
ment, strange  traditional  peasant  songs,  Italian  and 
Spanish,  to  show  me  how  much  these  had  in  com- 
mon with  the  earliest  Church  music.  It  was  after 
this  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  educated  for  the 
priesthood,  first  at  Bowmont,  which  is  known  as  the 
Roman  Catholic  Eton,  then  at  a  college  in  Rome, 
and  that  he  had  later  taught  in  a  Jesuit  college  in 
Ireland. 

"But  you  are  not  a  priest  now?"  I  asked,  afraid 
of  saying  too  much,  yet  dying  to  hear  more.  He 
looked  at  me  as  if  considering  something. 

"I  ceased  long  ago  to  believe,  as  the  Church 
counts  belief,"  he  said.  And  he  spoke  in  such  a 
quiet,  grave  voice  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
say  anything  further. 

But,  Ruby,  how  I  thank  my  stars  for  sending  me 
a  friend  of  this  sort!  He  uses  no  such  words  as 
"sacrifice,"  "conscience,"  or  even  "truth"  (such  ex- 
pressions can  be  left  at  this  date  to  second-raters 
like  Miss  McRaith!),  yet  my  whole  soul  bows  be- 
fore him  in  passionate  respect. 

March  5.  Such  a  fearful  disappointment!  Ron- 
ald isn't  coming  with  us  for  Easter.  Instead  he  is 


The  Camomile  Dpi  7 

going  with  Mungo  to  Paris!  Of  course  I  want 
him  to  enjoy  himself,  and  I  know — as  he  has  us  all 
the  year  round — that  Aunt  Harry  and  I  can't  be  very 
amusing  company.  Still,  I  think  it  was  rather  mean 
of  him  first  to  say  he  would  go,  and  then  to  back 
out.  I  have  done  my  very  best  not  to  let  him 
see  how  it  hurt  me,  and  I  think  I  have  succeeded, 
simply  because  he  is  so  free  from  vanity  that  he 
would  never  realize  of  his  own  accord  how  much 
I  shall  miss  him.  It's  the  same  when  he  talks  of 
going  to  America  as  soon  as  he  is  through  with  Mr. 
Murray's  office  here.  And  that  will  be  this  summer! 
What  a  life  for  me  with  him  gone!  It  is  very 
strange,  this  about  brothers.  Ronald  and  I  are  both 
so  full  of  our  own  "ploys"  that  we  really  do  very 
few  things  together,  and  do  not  even  talk  much. 
Half  the  time  I  don't  know  what  he  is  thinking,  and 
I'm  sure  he  never  bothers  about  my  thoughts.  Yet 
there  it  is.  When  he  is  not  at  home  the  whole 
house  seems  empty  to  me  and  I  can  hardly  settle 
down  even  to  work. 

March  17.  I  have  been  doing  up  the  Room!  Sud- 
denly, in  this  lovely  bright  weather  I  couldn't  stand 
it  any  longer,  and  anyhow  my  fees  from  Miss  Suth- 
erland will  be  coming  in  at  Easter.  It  is  wonderful 


n8  The  Camomile 

how  little  I  have  had  to  spend  on  the  whole  thing. 
And  the  fun  I  have  had  out  of  it!  With  another 
visit  from  Don  John  all  the  while  in  my  mind's  eye, 
I  have  stained  the  floor  black,  distempered  the  ceil- 
ing yellow  (to  give  a  cunning  effect  of  sunshine  oth- 
erwise rarely  to  be  felt  in  Harper  Street)  and  the 
walls  plain  white.  The  two  doors  (one  is  of  a 
cupboard)  and  the  wainscoting,  I  have  stained  with 
Berlin  black  (how  much  easier  and  cheaper  than 
paint!),  keeping  a  rather  dull  surface  and  outlining 
the  panels,  which  I  only  then  realized  were  rather 
nicely  proportioned,  with  a  quarter-inch  line  of  ver- 
digris green!  It  is  most  amusing  doing  this.  You 
poise  the  fine  paint  brush,  hold  your  breath  and, 
when  the  moment  comes  (not  before),  sweep  your 
line  at  one  go,  hit  or  miss!  I  must  have  a  fairly 
steady  hand,  for  I  scarcely  ever  made  a  bad  break. 
The  lines  do  bulge  a  little  here  and  there,  but  this 
is  hardly  noticed  in  the  general  effect,  which  Ron- 
ald admits  is  "not  half  bad."  This  is  high  praise 
from  him  where  such  matters  are  concerned.  Every 
stick  of  furniture  is  now  cleared  out  except  the  piano, 
the  chest  of  drawers  (which  I  need  for  papers  and 
music)  and  the  washstand  desk,  for  which  I  have 
made  a  fitted  cover  of  green  baize  as  the  marble  top 
gave  me  chilblains.  Miss  Sprunt  has  allowed  me 


The  Camomile  119 

to  paint  the  chest  of  drawers,  as  it  is  just  a  deal 
one,  the  same  as  the  doors — black  with  a  green  out- 
line. The  only  thing  I  have  had  to  buy,  apart  from 
paints  and  brushes,  is  some  chintz.  How  happy  I 
was  to  see  the  last  of  the  yellow  lace  curtains!  And 
with  the  same  chintz  I've  covered  the  piano  stool 
and  several  orange  boxes  for  seats.  (Miss  Sprunt's 
chairs  did  not  fit  in  with  the  new  scheme.)  A  rug 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  afford  for  ages,  but  what  does 
it  matter!  Miss  Sprunt,  when  I  displayed  the  re- 
sult of  my  hard  week's  work,  said,  "It'll  be  cozier- 
like  when  it's  finished."  And  when  I  told  her  it  was 
finished,  she  swallowed  and  said:  "Oh,  yes!  Well, 
it'll  be  nice  and  cool  for  you  in  the  summer  months 
if  we  have  any  warm  weather!" 

The  worst  of  it  is  I'm  so  pleased  with  it  that — 
at  any  rate  for  the  moment — I  cannot  do  a  stroke 
of  work  there.  I  just  sit  smiling  inanely  at  the  ceil- 
ing and  doors,  keep  jumping  up  to  see  if  the  cur- 
tains look  nicer  looped  back  or  hanging  straight, 
and  wish  that  I  had  the  courage  to  write  on  my  walls 
as  Balzac  did,  "Here  hangs  an  Annunciation  by 
Ghirlandaio,"  or,  "Here  stands  a  Venetian  marriage 
chest  painted  in  red  and  green  and  gold."  But  I 
know  if  I  did  this  Miss  Sprunt  would  seriously  think 
me  insane  and  might  refuse  to  let  me  have  the 


I2O  The  Camomile 

room  any  longer.  Besides,  but  for  Balzac  I  prob- 
ably should  not  have  thought  of  doing  any  such 
thing,  and  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  should  like  it 
after  I  had  done  it.  On  the  whole  I'm  glad  I  can't 
afford  any  pictures,  for  in  the  long  run  I  like  walls 
better  without  them.  I  should  like  best  to  have 
one  very  good  but  small  (and  by  small  I  mean  un- 
heroic)  piece  of  sculpture.  Miss  Hepburn  among 
her  photographs  had  one  of  a  bronze  turkey  cock 
by  Benvenuto  Cellini.  That  is  a  thing  I  should 
never  tire  of.  I  am  going  to  put  up  one  or  two 
bookshelves  and  buy  a  small  cupboard  for  my  tea- 
things  which  at  present  have  to  stand  along  the 
mantel-piece.  There  is  a  gas  ring,  praise  Heaven. 
But  I  have  made  a  vow  that  I  shall  invite  only  cer- 
tain friends  there.  I  have  drawn  up  a  list  of  them 
in  two  columns.  The  first  contains  those  who  can  be 
trusted  not  to  call  again  except  when  they  are  asked, 
the  second  (a  very  short  column)  those  I  am  glad 
to  see  at  any  time  whatever.  My  only  trouble  is 
that  I  don't  know  into  which  column  to  put  Aunt 
Harry.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  ask  her,  though  she's 
not  one  that  can  be  trusted  not  to  come  unasked. 
If  she  takes  to  dropping  in,  the  whole  thing  becomes 
a  farce.  Yet  if  I  beg  her  to  stay  away  she  will 
perhaps  be  hurt.  Can  you  advise  me?  Trials  in, 


The  Camomile  121 

Tact,  see  The  British  Weekly — "Miss  C.,  a  talented, 
industrious  young  orphan  lady  who  has  been  brought 
up  by  a  kind  but  trying  aunt  on  the  paternal  side, 

rents  a  studio  at  ten  minutes'  distance  from  her 

/ 

aunt's  house  with  a  view  to  cultivating  the  liberal 
arts.  Should  she  invite  her  aunt  to  the  studio  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  .  .  .  etc.,  etc.?  A  copy  of 
Dr.  Robertson  NicolPs  new  volume  of  sermons  will 
be  awarded  to  the  competitor  who  sends  in  the  best 
solution." 

March  2o.  At  tea  this  evening  Ronald  juggled 
with  our  dear  old  nursery  mugs  that  Mother  gave 
us,  and  broke  mine.  I  was  dreadfully  sorry  at 
first,  but  now  I  am  quite  glad  that  he  did  it,  for 
after  all  when  I  come  to  think  it  over  I  loved  it 
chiefly  because  it  was  connected  with  him  and  our 
old  nursery  teas  in  Blythswood  Square,  and  now  I 
shall  always  remember  that  he  broke  it  juggling, 
whereas  it  might  easily  have  been  knocked  quite 
meaninglessly  against  the  pantry  spout  by  Nelly. 
Nelly  hardly  ever  washes  up  without  breaking  some- 
thing against  the  spout.  Then  she  will  bring  the 
thing  in  pieces  to  Aunt  Harry  and  say  (just  as  if 
she  had  discovered  it  so,  and  was  virtuously  wonder- 
ing who  could  have  done  it),  "Look,  Miss  Carstairs, 


122  The  Camomile 

what's  happened  to  your  poor  teapot!"  Aunt  Harry 
may  think  that  for  once  she  will  be  able  to  make 
Nelly  feel  bad  about  it.  But  not  at  all.  "Careless, 
is  it?"  Nelly  will  exclaim.  "It's  not  carelessness, 
whatever  it  is.  You  surely  don't  think,  Miss  Car- 
stairs  that  I'd  go  and  do  a  thing  like  that  on  pur- 
pose?" 

Still,  I  can't  help  liking  Nelly.  She  said  to  me  the 
other  day  when  she  saw  me  in  the  fawn  dress  and  hat 
(it  really  has  been  a  success  after  all,  Ruby) :  "You 
are  a  perfect  model,  Miss  Ell'n!  You  carry  me 
away  body  and  soul!  You  do  so!" 

Sunday,  March  24.  For  three  days  it  has  rained 
coldly  and  steadily,  and  I  have  felt  too  depressed 
to  do  anything  more  than  just  scrape  through  with 
my  lessons.  On  Friday  night  it  is  true  I  went  to 
one  of  the  Christies'  "evenings"  (they  have  one 
every  third  Friday  of  the  month),  but  did  not  much 
enjoy  it.  All  the  same  I  wish  I  could  describe  to 
you  the  strange  atmosphere  of  that  house!  Mrs. 
Christie  gives  you  the  feeling  that  she  is  a  widow, 
but  it  is  known  that  she  has  a  husband  somewhere 
and  that  he  is  a  Glasgow  man,  though  a  very  bad 
lot.  He  is  also  said  to  be  brilliant,  but  I  don't  know 


The  Camomile  1123 

in  what  line.    His  relations  live  in  Langside  and 
are  quite  dull  and  respectable. 

You  can  certainly  conceive  of  nothing  less  "Glas- 
gow" than  Mrs.  Christie  and  her  two  daughters 
(there  are  no  boys).  Though  Mrs.  Christie  has 
quiet,  even  gentle  manners,  every  one  feels  a  little 
afraid  of  her.  She  has  prematurely  white  hair,  dark, 
burning  eyes  (one  with  a  drooping  lid),  and  the  most 
exquisite  nose  I  have  ever  seen — rather  long  but 
"chiseled,"  as  the  bad  novelists  say,  and  with  "quiv- 
ering" nostrils.  I'm  sure  she  spends  hardly  any- 
thing on  her  clothes  as  she  is  very  poor,  but  she 
always  looks  more  elegant  than  any  one  else  in 
the  room  simply  because  of  the  expression  of  her 
face.  Stella  and  Isabel  must  have  got  their  height 
and  broad  shoulders  from  their  father  (Dr.  Bruce 
once  told  me  he  was  "a  mountain  of  a  man"),  for 
Mrs.  Christie  is  very  slight  and  small.  The  girls 
both  adore  her  and  are,  I  think,  jealous  of  each  other. 
When  I  am  with  the  three  of  them  together  I  get  a 
most  unhappy  feeling.  Somehow  they  make  one 
think  of  fallen  angels  who  are  finding  it  not  only 
difficult  but  distasteful  to  have  to  accommodate  them- 
selves to  ordinary  human  beings.  But  they  are 
angels  that  have  fallen  from  pride,  and  they  have 


124  The  Camomile 

something  less  than  human,  something  almost  de- 
moniac about  them. 

Their  "evening"  was  not  pleasant  nor  homely  in 
the  least.  There  were  several  young  men  from  the 
University — clearly  admirers  of  Stella.  Also  some 
painful  specimens  of  female  admirers — one  won- 
ders where  she  picks  these  up  and  how  she  tolerates 
them.  Isabel  had  only  one  Art  School  friend  there, 
a  clever-looking  girl  with  marvelous  red  hair  who, 
I  believe,  paints  very  well.  And  I  thought  Isabel 
viewed  Stella's  crowd  with  a  cool,  secret  scorn.  It 
is  the  strangest  sensation  to  close  your  eyes  and 
listen  for  the  voices  of  the  two  sisters.  If  either 
voice  is  perfectly  toneless,  you  can  tell  for  a  cer- 
tainty that  one  of  them  is  addressing  the  other.  If 
a  curious  but  somehow  slightly  false,  caressing  qual- 
ity comes  into  the  voice  of  either,  she  is  speaking 
to  the  mother.  But  for  friends  and  strangers  alike 
there  comes  a  pure,  musical,  but  icily  unconfiding 
streamlet  of  sound. 

Except  that  I  played  once,  and  Stella  sang  (badly 
but  looking  very  fine),  conversation  on  Friday  eve- 
ning was  the  only  entertainment.  And,  I  ask  you, 
in  such  an  atmosphere  could  the  conversation  be  very 
rich?  Stella,  when  she  speaks  to  you,  gives  you 
the  impression  that  she  could  converse  wonderfully, 


The  Camomile  125 

but  that  you  are  not  just  worth  it.  Her  actual  talk 
with  you  is  dull  and  rather  stupid,  but  when  she 
has  left  you  and  you  see  her  speaking  with  some 
one  else,  you  feel  so  sure  she  is  saying  interesting 
things  that  you  strain  every  nerve  to  catch  them. 
It  was  obvious  that  all  Stella's  guests  were  bored 
talking  to  or  looking  at  any  one  but  Stella.  I  could 
have  knocked  their  heads  together.  Not  so  much 
because  they  wouldn't  give  me  any  attention  when 
I  tried  to  be  pleasant — though  of  course  that  is  al- 
ways annoying — but  because  of  the  air  of  mystery 
and  separateness  they  gave  me,  as  if  they  were  some 
exclusive  brotherhood.  I  do  hate  a  cult! 

Sunday,  March  31.  All  this  last  week  I  have  been 
writing  steadily,  and  yesterday  a  most  wonderful 
thing  happened.  I  dared  to  show  Don  John  my 
play  and  two  short  sketches,  and  he  ...  no,  Ruby, 
I  can  hardly  believe  it  myself! 

Let  me  tell  you,  though,  perfectly  calmly.  I  took 
some  of  my  MSS.  to  his  lodgings  yesterday  after- 
noon, he  having  asked  me  if  I  should  like  to  see 
his  books.  He  lives  in  one  room  in  Endrick  Street. 
But  what  does  that  mean  to  you,  and  how  can  I 
describe  Endrick  Street  to  any  one  who  has  never 
been  in  it?  "Ugly"  is  not  the  word  that  describes 


i a6  The  Camomile 

it.  It  is  just  one  of  those  despairing  streets  which 
we  have  here  and  there  in  Glasgow  and,  so  far  as 
I  have  seen,  you  have  not  at  all  in  London.  It  is 
long  and  black  and  melancholy  as  a  stone  chasm. 
All  hope  abandons  you  as  you  enter  it.  From  morn- 
ing till  night  there  is  the  sound  of  worn  carpets 
being  beaten,  and  of  stone  steps  being  scrubbed 
by  landladies  in  Hinde's  curlers.  The  great  win- 
dows are  always  left  dirty,  the  broken  black  rail- 
ings are  never  repaired,  and  there  is  a  smell  of  soot 
as  if  a  chimney  had  just  been  on  fire.  Nothing  seems 
to  thrive  in  the  back  green  but  soot  and  cats.  I 
have  never  once  walked  along  it  but  there  has  been 
a  half-empty  coal-cart  on  the  roadway  with  a  man 
standing  up  in  it,  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  wailing  the 
words  "Coal  Briquettes!"  as  if  he  were  one  of 
Dante's  damned  souls. 

The  house  in  which  Don  John  lives  is  all  let  out 
in  one-room  lodgings  and  there  is  a  phrenologist 
with  a  brass  plate  on  the  ground  floor.  Don  John 
has  a  medium-sized  room  at  the  front  on  the  top 
story.  Every  bit  of  his  four  walls  not  taken  up  by 
furniture  (and  he  only  has  a  camp  bed,  a  table 
and  a  chair)  is  covered  with  his  books.  He  has 
about  three  times  as  many  as  old  Mr.  Hepburn, 
and  how  much  better  I  like  his  way  of  treating 


The  Camomile  [127 

them!  Like  Mr.  Hepburn  he  says  he  has  long  ago 
sold  his  first  editions  and  rare  copies,  but  he  shows 
no  signs  of  mourning  them  particularly.  They  are 
not  his  "pets."  All  that  is  in  them  has  become,  I 
feel,  so  much  a  part  of  his  knowledge,  rather  of  his 
experience,  that  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter  at  all 
whether  they  remain  on  his  shelves  or  not. 

But  now  about  my  play.  Though  I  was  shak- 
ing all  over,  I  watched  him  very  closely  as  he  stood 
in  his  strange  attitude  (he  always  reads  standing, 
even  at  the  library,  so  that  I  can  hardly  think  of 
him  as  sitting  on  a  chair  except  that  one  time  at 
my  piano)  reading  page  after  page  of  my  manu- 
script. He  was  very,  very  kind,  but  how  I  suf- 
fered! 

To  come  to  business,  though.  Of  the  play  he  said 
the  conception  was  "fresh  and  very  interesting,"  and 
"might  quite  well"  (what  agony  in  these  three 
words!)  be  made  dramatic.  The  dialogue,  he 
thought,  was  "lively."  The  characters  had  not  been 
deeply  enough  thought  about  and  were  too  palpably 
inventions,  not  drawn  from  real  observation  and 
knowledge.  It  is  like  being  skinned  alive  to  hear 
such  things,  but  I  don't  care  if  only  I  can  learn 
anything  from  the  process. 

On  the  sketches  I  hardly  expected  him  to  make 


128  The  Camomile 

any  comments  at  all,  but  to  my  surprise  he  was  far 
more  interested  in  them  than  in  the  play.  "Here," 
he  said,  "you  are  really  getting  at  something  indi- 
vidual. Here  is  your  natural  bent.  You  must  learn 
to  see  that  for  yourself,  as  clearly  you  do  not  know 
it  yet."  Then  he  talked  to  me  a  long  time  about 
writing.  "Write  about  what  you  know,"  he  kept 
saying.  "It  is  only  fools  that  think  it  more  imagina- 
tive for  an  artist  to  describe  things  he  has  never 
seen  than  things  he  has  seen.  The  imagination,  the 
vision  of  the  true  writer  lies  in  the  freshness  with 
which  he  sees,  and  his  power  in  the  faithfulness  with 
which  he  presents." 

Then,  just  as  I  was  going  home,  he  gave  me  the 
greatest  and  the  loveliest  surprise  of  my  life.  He 
said  quite  casually,  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary  utter- 
ance: "I  think,  if  you  would  care  to  let  me  have  it, 
I  might  be  able  to  get  that  shorter  sketch  published 
in  one  of  the  London  weeklies  of  which  I  used  to 
know  the  editor."  "If  I  would  care  ...  ! "  Even 
now,  Ruby,  I  can  hardly  believe  it  can  be  true! 

Good  Friday,  April  5.  Arrochar.  What  violent 
but  beautiful  weather  this  Easter!  Hail  and  bril- 
liant sunshine  together  .  .  .  the  hill-tops  covered 
with  snow,  the  trees  with  young  leaves.  How  I 


The  Camomile  129 

love  trees!  Even  better  than  flowers.  At  least  they 
move  me  more  deeply.  Aunt  Harry  and  I  came 
down  here  yesterday,  and  this  morning  I  went  for  a 
long  walk  by  myself  up  Hell's  Glen  and  into  the 
hills.  I  was  deeply  stirred  by  all  that  my  eyes  rested 
on.  It  was  almost  anguish.  Lots  of  the  pine  sap- 
lings were  bowed  archwise  to  the  ground,  their  tips 
held  fast  there  by  the  sheer  weight  of  snow.  Here 
and  there  a  larch  or  a  birch,  sporting  new  green, 
had  been  snapped  right  across  the  stem  in  the  night, 
the  jagged  stump  sticking  up  out  of  the  snow  like 
an  accusation,  and  pale  leaf  buds  were  scattered 
broadcast.  I  saw  several  old  yews  with  heavy 
boughs  torn  off,  and  their  sap,  where  the  limb  had 
been  so  cruelly  severed,  showed  bright  red  like 
arterial  blood.  A  hail  rainbow!  Did  you  ever  see 
one?  It  really  seems  this  spring  as  if  nature  was 
bent  on  an  orgy  of  mixed  seasons  before  bringing  the 
world  to  an  end.  The  greater  part  of  March  was 
very  mild,  so  that  everything  is  much  more  forward 
than  usual,  and  now  blizzards  again,  but  blizzards 
followed  almost  immediately  by  the  sunshine  of 
summer!  To  see  the  snow  and  the  blossom  on  a 
single  branch  is  painful,  but  there  is  no  denying 
it  is  exquisite  as  well. 


130  The  Camomile 

April  6.  Unfortunately  Aunt  Harry  has  been  in 
a  bad  mood  ever  since  we  left  Glasgow,  and  so  far, 
if  we  have  avoided  mishap,  it  has  been  due  to  my 
self-control  alone.  She  complains  of  the  rooms  be- 
ing poky,  of  the  food  being  cold,  of  the  towels  not 
being  aired.  To  do  her  justice  she  is  not  generally 
difficult  in  these  ways,  and  I  think  myself  that  this 
peculiar  irritability  has  something  to  do  with  Ron- 
ald. He  may  even  have  said  something  definite  to 
her  about  his  going  to  America.  He  has  not  said 
a  word  to  me  on  this  famous  old  subject  lately,  but 
for  this  very  reason  the  feeling  has  grown  in  me 
that  his  mind  must  be  made  up.  Perhaps  he  means 
to  go  soon  after  he  has  finished  at  Mr.  Murray's, 
that  is  to  say,  some  time  this  summer.  Whatever 
shall  I  do  without  him  at  home?  I  dare  not  think 
about  it  much.  The  only  thing  is,  it  does  make 
me  try  harder  to  be  patient  with  Aunt  Harry  at  the 
moment.  Not  for  the  world  would  I  do  anything 
but  help  Ronald  to  get  off  if  he  wants  to  go,  as  of 
course  he  must.  I  shall  never  forget  how  decent  he 
was  about  my  going  to  Germany.  But  America — 
how  far  away  it  seems!  And  will  he  ever  want  to 
come  back? 

Later.    Your  most  interesting  and  exciting  letter, 


The  Camomile 

Ruby,  has  just  reached  me,  forwarded  from  Bland- 
ford  Terrace.  I  say,  what  idiots  we  were  not  to 
have  seen  it  long  ago!  Why,  of  course  caricature  is 
your  line!  Those  very  qualities  you  have  always 
thought  drawbacks  in  your  serious  portraits  will  be 
the  making  of  you  as  a  caricaturist.  How  well  I 
remember  that  day  in  Frankfort  when  we  had  to 
wait  interminably  in  the  post-office  for  our  Christ- 
mas parcels,  and  to  pass  the  time  you  began  doing 
little  drawings  of  the  officials.  I  really  thought  we 
were  both  going  to  be  arrested  when  that  fierce  old 
one  with  his  "Es  ist  erreigt,  Kolossal!"  mustache 
came  up  and  in  the  name  of  the  Fatherland  confis- 
cated your  notebook!  Fancy  my  never  once  re- 
alizing what  it  was  you  ought  to  be  at!  Yet  not 
one  of  all  your  artist  friends  seems  to  have  thought 
of  it  either.  Nor  you  yourself,  till  that  blessed  mo- 
ment last  week.  I  suppose  you  had  grown  accus- 
tomed to  regard  all  such  drawing  as  a  mere  relaxa- 
tion. How  very  interesting  that  all  the  time  it  was 
the  supposed  serious  work  that  was  waste  of  time! 
Now  that  you  have  found  out,  though,  everything 
you  have  learned  will  come  in  useful,  and  I  feel  sure 
you  will  go  straight  ahead.  That  introduction  from 
Max  Beerbohm  should  be  a  great  help  to  you.  His 
praise  and  encouragement  too.  Congratulations! 


132  The  Camomile 

April  7.  Since  coming  down  here  I  have  been 
thinking  a  good  deal  about  Ronald.  He  has  sent 
us  several  post-cards  from  Paris  to  say  that  he  and 
Mungo  are  enjoying  every  moment  of  their  stay, 
but  so  far  we  have  had  no  letter.  I  expect  he  has 
no  time  to  write.  It  is  his  first  holiday  out  of 
England. 

Do  you  remember  that  Sunday  of  the  storm  at 
the  Forsthaus,  when  we  saw  the  fireball,  and  so 
many  people  were  hurt,  some  killed?  And  after- 
wards when  the  rain  came  down  we  took  shelter  in 
a  hut,  and  I  began  rather  wildly  talking  about  my 
family,  especially  about  Mother  and  how  Ronald 
became  a  cripple?  Often  afterwards,  in  fairness  to 
Mother,  I  meant  to  tell  you  more,  for  in  that  mood 
of  emotional  excitement  I  know  I  missed  out  many 
details  that  make  a  difference  when  one  comes  to 
judge  of  a  person's  behavior.  But  somehow  when 
we  got  talking  again  I  always  forgot. 

Though  it  is  true  that  Ronald  was  out  alone  with 
Mother  when  he  got  wet  through  that  time  as  a 
child,  and  it  was  his  sitting  wet  in  a  cold  room  for 
hours  that  did  the  mischief,  still  Mother  had  handed 
him  over,  as  soon  as  they  got  in,  to  the  landlady  of 
the  lodgings,  asking  her  to  see  to  him.  I  suppose 


The  Camomile  133 

Mother  honestly  thought  that  he  would  be  all  right. 
Of  course  she  should  have  attended  to  him  herself, 
but  she  had  grown  so  accustomed  in  Constantinople 
to  just  handing  us  over  to  the  servants.  I  mean 
it  wasn't,  was  it,  quite  the  kind  of  selfish  forget- 
fulness  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  changed  her 
own  clothes  while  he  was  shivering  forgotten  down- 
stairs? For  she  too  sat  down  sopping,  just  as  she 
had  come  in,  her  brain  I  suppose  on  fire  with  the 
ideas  that  had  come  to  her  in  the  storm,  and,  with- 
out so  much  as  taking  her  hat  off,  went  on  writing 
till  past  midnight.  The  wonder  was  that  she  didn't 
die  of  it.  But  she  did  not  even  take  cold.  I  ad- 
mit it  was  unforgivably  careless  of  her,  when  the 
woman  came  down  and  said  that  Ronald  (I  don't 
know  if  I  told  you  he  was  only  six  at  the  time) 
couldn't  sleep  for  "growing  pains,"  to  take  it  so 
easily  as  she  did  at  first.  But  even  then  she  didn't 
know  he  had  been  left  so  long  wet,  and  anyhow 
he  was  in  for  it  by  that  time,  and  how  she  took  it 
would  not  have  made  any  difference  to  him.  Every 
one  seems  agreed  that  once  she  knew  how  ill  he  was, 
she  nursed  him  with  "the  utmost  devotion,"  never 
sparing  herself,  and  "humanly  speaking,"  as  they 
say,  she  saved  his  life.  Also  she  blamed  herself 


134  The  Camomile 

bitterly  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  which,  as  it  hap- 
pened was  not  long,  for  she  died  just  six  months 
after  poor  Ronald's  "recovery." 

There  is  no  sense  in  saying  it  would  have  been 
better  if  Ronald  had  died.  Of  some  people  this 
might  be  true,  but  not  of  him,  and  no  one  having  the 
slightest  acquaintance  with  him  could  think  other- 
wise. He  is  the  happiest  person  I  know.  He  has 
such  a  natural  passion  for  his  work  (I  mean  he 
would  have  had  this  just  the  same  if  he  had  not  been 
crippled)  that  fairly  often  I  believe  he  is  actu- 
ally glad  of  the  circumstances  that  cloister  him, 
as  it  were,  into  a  greater  concentration  and  devo- 
tion than  would  otherwise  be  possible.  Ronald  is 
going  to  make  his  mark  hi  the  world.  I'm  so  cer- 
tain of  this  that  when  everything  else,  especially 
myself,  seems  hopeless,  it  keeps  me  from  despair- 
ing. I  know  when  Ronald  was  still  at  school  he 
used  to  bear  Mother  some  ill-will  over  the  business, 
but  I'm  sure  he  doesn't  now.  So  why  should  I? 
The  only  trace  of  the  blame  he  once  felt  is  his  ob- 
jection to  women  "trying  to  write,"  and  his  wish 
to  see  me  married  to  some  "nice,  sensible  fellow 
who  won't  stand  any  nonsense." 

April  lo.    Home  again  to  the  old  routine!    And 


The  Camomile  135 

I  am  as  if  quite  suddenly  tired  of  it.  At  last  I 
have  had  a  letter  from  Ronald.  What  a  time  they 
have  had!  They  did  not  stay  at  an  hotel,  but 
shared  a  furnished  room  over  a  cremerie  in  the  Rue 
Boissy  d'Anglas,  which  he  says  is  very  central.  They 
paid  three  francs  a  day  for  bed  and  breakfast,  went 
out  all  the  forenoon,  rested  in  their  room  after 
lunch,  making  tea  from  their  tea-basket,  and  then 
went  out  again  till  bed-time,  always  having  dinner 
at  some  restaurant.  In  this  way  they  have  been 
able  to  afford  a  lot  more  driving  about  for  Ronald, 
and  it  seems  to  me  there  is  nothing  they  have  not 
seen  in  these  eight  days.  They  come  back  to-morrow 
night.  To  think  I  have  never  been  to  Paris!  Shall 
I  ever  go  anywhere  again? 

April  12.  This  afternoon  Aunt  Harry's  Tea-and- 
Prayer  Gathering  was  addressed  by  a  lady  from 
Syria,  who  showed  us  a  model  crown  of  thorns.  She 
had  an  exceedingly  bright  smile  which  seemed  to 
say:  "Look  at  me.  Am  not  I  a  bright  Christian!" 
And  when  she  was  not  smiling  her  face  wore  an  im- 
portant frown.  She  made  me  understand  perfectly 
why  Christians  have  so  often  been  spat  at  by  ordi- 
nary people. 

I  am  off  now  to  meet  Ronald  and  Mungo  at  the 


136  The  Camomile 

station.    It  is  a  pouring,  windy  night.    In  the  morn- 
ing one  of  the  top  windows  was  blown  out. 

Sunday,  April  14.  Since  Easter  I  have  tried  so 
hard  to  be  nicer  to  Aunt  Harry,  but  as  soon  as  we 
have  been  together  for  half  an  hour  without  Ron- 
ald I  begin  to  get  nasty.  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
about  it.  There  is  no  doubt  writing  makes  me  more 
irritable  with  her.  To-day  I  have  felt  quite  des- 
perate whenever  she  came  near  me. 

Now  is  this  a  sign  that  writing  is  wrong  for  me? 
I  am  deeply  worried  these  days  about  this  old  ques- 
tion. Is  writing — serious  writing — simply  a  mis- 
take for  a  woman?  Ronald,  as  you  know,  thinks 
it  is.  But  Ronald,  I  do  think,  is  influenced  here  by 
Mother's  unfortunate  example.  The  worst  of  it 
is  I  know  so  terribly  well  what  people  mean  when 
they  say  it  is  "a  pity"  that  a  woman  should  write. 
I  can  feel  why  it  is  so  different  from,  for  instance, 
a  woman's  singing  or  acting.  Because,  however  se- 
vere the  technique  of  these  arts  may  be,  they  are 
in  their  effect  womanly.  But  writing!  Except  for 
a  few  nice  little  poems  thrown  off  at  intervals,  or 
stories  for  children  (and  all  the  best  children's 
stories  are  by  men)  or  letters  like  Madame  de  Se- 


The  Camomile  137 

vigne's,  is  there  any  womanly  sphere  in  literature? 
There's  the  eternal  trio,  of  course — Jane  Austen,  the 
Brontes  and  George  Eliot  (the  last  I  don't  really 
like,  though  I  think  she  was  a  writer  and  had  to 
write  or  be  annulled  as  a  human  being).  But  I  ad- 
mit that  for  me,  when  I'm  reading  anything  serious, 
to  know  that  the  author  is  a  woman  who  sat  in  her 
petticoats  and  her  hairpins,  leaving  life  aside  to 
put  words  on  paper,  puts  me  off  like  anything. 

April  15.  To-day  I  went  to  the  library,  saw  Don 
John  there,  and — the  London  editor  has  returned  my 
sketch!  So  that's  that.  I  can  speak  quite  calmly 
about  it  now,  but  I  had  to  swallow  my  spittle  pretty 
hard  for  some  time  after  he  told  me. 

Don  John  is  more  bitter  over  the  whole  business 
than  I  should  have  expected  of  a  philosopher.  His 
disappointment,  I  can  see,  is  not  wholly,  perhaps  not 
even  mostly,  on  my  account.  He  had,  I  think,  taken 
it  for  granted  that  the  editor  could  not  refuse  to  do 
a  thing  of  the  sort  for  him,  if  only  out  of  friend- 
ship and  respect  for  his  judgment.  As  for  me,  I 
kept  telling  him  I  am  just  as  grateful  to  him  as 
if  it  had  been  accepted,  that  his  judgment  counts 
more  with  me  than  the  rejection  of  a  dozen  editors, 


138  The  Camomile 

that  anyhow  I  was  not  counting  on  its  being  ac- 
cepted. These  things  are  all  true,  as  I  live.  And 
yet  ...  1 

My  one  wish  then  was  that  he  would  keep  off 
the  subject,  but  it  seemed  as  if  he  couldn't.  He 
came  over  it  again  and  again,  so  that  I  could  al- 
most, once  or  twice,  if  the  notion  had  not  been 
too  perfectly  absurd,  have  imagined  that  he  had 
been  drinking. 

Never  mind!  I  continue  to  have  faith  in  his 
judgment  and  in  myself  in  spite  of  occasional  lapses 
into  the  most  sickening  gloom  and  unbelief,  par- 
ticularly when  I  remember  that  Mother's  faith  in 
herself  never  wavered  under  any  circumstances! 
What  a  blessed  thing  it  would  be  if  I  could  find  one 
single  page  of  Mother's  that  I  thought  was  worth 
something!  I  imagined  I  had  long  ago  given  up 
all  hope  of  making  such  a  discovery.  Yet  this  aft- 
ernoon I  began  once  more  eagerly  searching  through 
her  "works"  (mostly  in  pamphlet  form)  with  the 
idea  that  possibly  the  explanation  of  my  failure 
hitherto  might  lie  in  myself.  Had  I  up  till  now 
simply  not  developed  sufficiently  to  perceive  the 
nature  and  value  of  her  ideas?  This  was  always 
her  own  explanation  when  other  people  were  dis- 
paraging. She  did  not  blame  them.  She  merely 


The  Camomile  139 

pitied   them   for  their   immaturity  and  blindness. 
Mother,  Mother,  what  a  legacy  you  have  left  me! 

April  17.  Lovely  weather  again,  very  mild  and 
bright  with  a  silvery  sunshine  that  seems  as  if 
it  must  come  from  some  gentler  planet  than  that 
which  furnished  the  light  for  my  Arrochar  rain- 
bows and  brassy  cloud-mountains.  I,  however,  am 
sad  and  restless,  unable  either  to  work  or  to 
enjoy  myself.  After  playing  this  morning  at  Miss 
Sutherland's,  I  wandered  about  the  Botanic  Gardens 
and  watched  the  rooks  building  their  nests,  flying 
from  every  side  with  bits  of  straw  in  their  beaks. 
If  only  these  unresting  thoughts  of  mine  were  half 
as  productive! 

Now,  having  got  through  the  day's  work  some- 
how, I  am  trying  to  console  myself  by  unloading 
some  of  my  complaints  upon  you.  One  comfort,  or 
so  I  tell  myself,  is  that  it  is  no  vague  depression 
that  I  feel  nowadays.  Real  troubles  confront  me 
at  every  turn  and  become  less  and  less  easy 
to  avoid.  Aunt  Harry  is  one.  The  unending 
conflict  with  her  over  things  nearly  all  paltry  in 
themselves,  but  vital  when  taken  in  the  mass,  saps 
far  too  much  of  my  strength.  Nor  is  this  one  of 
the  troubles  which  "by  opposing"  can  be  ended.  It 


140  The  Camomile 

and  the  opposition  to  it  run  on  undeviatingly  in 
parallel  lines.  I  know  I  said  I'd  rather  have  her 
than  your  mother  because  she  forced  me  to  find  out 
what  I  wanted.  But  what  about  after  having  found 
this  out?  It  seems  to  me  you  score  heavily  there, 
my  girl!  The  one  thing  that  keeps  me  on  decent 
daily  terms  with  her  is — strange  though  it  seems  to 
me  at  this  downcast  moment  of  writing — my  belief 
in  my  own  powers,  which  has  grown  up  in  me  slowly 
enough  and  is  not  now  lightly  to  be  banished.  Yet 
after  all  what  have  I  to  show?  And  once  more 
the  nauseating  question  reiterates  itself,  Is  not  this 
the  same  kind  of  belief  Mother  had  in  herself? 
There  again,  you  see,  Aunt  Harry  profits — by  my 
doubts  as  well  as  by  my  belief.  For  I  tell  myself 
that  if  I  am  deluded  as  Mother  was,  at  least  I  can 
take  care  to  be  more  punctilious  and  as  little  hurtful 
as  possible  in  ordinary  personal  and  family  relations. 
But  how  crippled  and  balked  I  feel  nearly  all 
the  time!  Even  to  Ronald  I  cannot  speak  of  it. 
I  know  it  is  cowardly  to  lay  the  blame  on  circum- 
stances. I  know  things  might  be  worse.  I  know 
this  cannot  go  on  forever.  And  these  simple  pieces 
of  knowledge  should  be  enough  to  put  me  on  my 
mettle  so  that,  instead  of  wasting  my  energy  in  be- 
moaning things,  I  should  spare  no  pains  to  wrest 


The  Camomile  141 

all  that  is  possible  out  of  the  present  which  will  never 
repeat  itself.  Hereafter,  upon  looking  back,  I  dare- 
say my  life,  as  it  is  now,  may  seem  rich  in  oppor- 
tunities. Even  at  this  moment  I  realize  there  are 
elements  in  it  that  I  would  not  miss  for  a  good 
deal.  It  is  not  all  waste.  There  is  enough  and 
more  than  enough  material  for  me  to  be  always 
working  upon  and  learning  my  job.  This  thought 
steadies  me  more  than  any  other.  Oh,  for  more 
time!  I  waste  lots,  I  know,  but  I  need  lots  to 
waste,  for  it  seems  I  cannot  work  in  any  other  than 
the  wasteful  way. 

Madge  told  me  the  other  day  that  I  was  getting 
"much  too  solemn  and  serious,"  and  asked  what 
on  earth  was  the  use  of  it.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
I'd  like  not  to  be  solemn.  But  in  Glasgow  I  don't 
see  how  a  person  like  me  can  have  very  much  joyous 
satisfaction.  For  any  one  with  such  a  keen 
relish  for  enjoyment  as  I  feel  I  have,  the  frivolities 
here  seem  unutterably  tame  and  inadequate.  They 
do  not  seem  to  spring  from  anything  deeper  than 
the  need  for  distraction,  and  somehow  for  me  that 
isn't  enough.  Indeed  I  find  it  tedious.  I  do  long 
passionately  for  fun,  gaiety,  excitement,  pleasure, 
but  I  must  have  them  coming  from  some  other 
source  than  the  sheer  necessity  for  diversion  from  a 


142  The  Camomile 

daily  life  of  essential  dullness.  So  I  grow  solemn, 
which  also  is  hateful. 

Thinking,  I  suppose,  to  set  a  good  example  of 
cheerfulness  before  me,  Madge  insisted  upon  lend- 
ing me  a  book — a  sort  of  autobiography  by  an  aris- 
tocratic lady  called  Mary  Boyle.  This  person  cer- 
tainly seems  to  have  led  a  very  happy,  light-hearted 
life.  I  felt  envious  when  I  read  about  her.  For 
one  thing  I  envied  her  her  horses.  Then  there  were 
the  lovely  old  English  country  houses  where  she 
lived  and  visited,  and  all  the  joys  of  "good  so- 
ciety" which  I  am  sure  are  not  to  be  too  lightly 
sniffed  at,  and  the  kind  of  merriment  for  which  lux- 
ury is  absolutely  necessary.  It  might  be  fine  to  live 
like  that.  But  how  can  I  tell?  And  anyhow,  why 
should  reading  about  it  help  to  cheer  me  up  when 
I  cannot  possibly  share  it?  How  queerly  Madge's 
mind  does  work!  One  thing  in  the  book  that  does 
certainly  help  to  reconcile  me  to  what  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart  calls  "our  walk  of  life"  is  the  wonderfully 
poor  stuff  that  seems  to  pass  for  choice  wit  among 
the  peerage. 

The  more  I  come  to  think  it  over,  the  more  I  feel 
that  such  a  life  as  Mary  Boyle's  would  not  suit 
me  at  all.  I  need  so  much  leisure,  so  much  being  by 
myself  doing  nothing  in  particular,  and  she  seems 


The  Camomile 

always  to  have  done  everything  in  company.  I  do 
love  meeting  people,  but  a  whole  day  with  them 
nearly  kills  me.  Having  to  be  socially  polite  for  a 
couple  of  hours  at  a  stretch  makes  my  face  ache  all 
over. 

April  19.  Two  nights  ago  I  began  writing  a  sketch 
about  a  girl  rather  like  Laura  who  marries  an  ordi- 
nary— what  Aunt  Harry  calls  a  "fleshly" — young 
man,  and  by  her  insistent  gentleness  and  "spiritu- 
ality" puts  a  double  share  of  wickedness  on  him, 
turning  him  eventually  into  something  like  a  devil, 
while  she  keeps  all  the  public  sympathy.  I  wrote 
all  through  the  night  till  five  the  next  morning,  and 
at  intervals  the  next  day,  and  to-day  I  have  typed 
it  out  and  dropped  it  into  Don  John's  letter-box.  I 
think  it  is  the  best  thing  I  have  done  up  to  now. 
Even  after  getting  it  off  I  could  not  rest,  but  to- 
night (it  is  two  A.M.  now  and  I  am  in  bed),  started 
re-writing  the  first  act  of  my  play  "Influence,"  and 
re-shaping  the  rest,  changing  practically  everything 
except  the  theme.  It  may  still  be  no  good,  but 
anyway  it  has  been  a  splendid  exercise,  as  it  has 
forced  me  to  think  clearly.  Also  I  have  realized  that 
Don  John  was  right,  and  only  too  gentle  in  his 
criticism.  The  thing  as  it  stood  was  quite  lifeless. 


ri'44  The  Camomile 

I  will  not  show  it  to  him  again,  however,  for  the 
present.  When  I  have  done  all  I  can  to  it,  I  shall 
put  it  aside  for  a  whole  year. 

I  do  feel  happier  for  having  worked  so  hard  these 
last  two  days,  but  I  am  tired  almost  to  madness.  I 
don't  feel  now  as  if  I  should  sleep.  I  wonder  what 
Don  John  will  think  of  the  story!  The  Angel,  I 
have  called  it. 

April  20.  Last  night  I  was  too  tired,  and  per- 
haps also  lacked  the  courage,  to  tell  you  of  an 
absurd  thing  I  did  on  my  way  home  from  leaving 
my  MS.  at  Don  John's  lodgings  at  about  seven 
o'clock. 

It  was  rather  a  pleasant  fresh  evening  with  some 
light  still  left  in  the  sky,  though  the  lamps  were  lit 
in  the  streets  and  inside  most  of  the  houses.  And 
I  came  home  from  the  foot  of  Endrick  Street  on 
the  top  of  the  car.  You  know  how,  if  one  has  to 
walk  or  go  by  tram  very  often  along  the  same  route, 
one  gets  interested  in  certain  windows.  For  a  long 
time  past — since  before  I  went  to  Germany — I  have 
never  failed  when  traveling  by  this  way  to  stare 
up  at  a  certain  high  corner  window  which  the  tram 
passes  about  halfway  on  its  journey  from  town.  It 
had  become  an  almost  unconscious  habit  with  me 


The  Camomile  145 

to  do  so — indeed,  often,  if  I  chanced  to  be  passing 
in  the  daylight,  I  had  to  recollect  the  reason  with  an 
effort.  Once  the  lamps  were  lit,  though,  the  rea- 
son for  my  interest  was  self-evident.  The  curtains 
of  the  room  were  rarely  drawn,  and  even  when  they 
were,  one  could  almost  always  see  the  shadow  of  a 
young  man  playing  on  a  violin.  Often  enough  I 
have  gone  on  the  top  of  the  car  instead  of  inside, 
in  spite  of  bad  weather,  just  to  have  a  better  look. 
From  what  I  could  see  on  nights  when  the  curtains 
were  not  drawn,  the  room  seemed  ugly,  bare  and 
poor  under  the  glare  of  an  unshaded  incandescent 
light,  but  always  there  was  this  young  man  with 
his  back  to  the  window  practising  away  like  mad. 
How  I  longed  to  see  his  face!  In  fact,  I  won- 
dered a  great  deal  about  him,  asked  myself  many 
fruitless  questions,  made  up  many  absurd  stories 
concerning  him.  Was  he  a  poor  musician  in  lodg- 
ings there?  Some  foreigner,  perhaps,  struggling  to 
make  a  living  in  the  terribly  uncongenial  surround- 
ings of  Glasgow,  after  a  distinguished  studenthood, 
say  in  Prague?  Or  was  this  his  own  home,  and 
was  he,  even  like  myself,  working  thus  frantically 
to  escape  from  it  and  find  himself  in  the  great  world 
outside?  Was  he  handsome  or  a  consumptive?  A 
gentleman  or  a  genius  of  low  birth?  Und  so  welter  I 


146  The  Camomile 

Always  after  seeing  him  I  was  filled  with  self- 
reproaches  for  my  own  indolence,  and  I  used  to  go 
home  and  start  practising  with  frantic  diligence. 
Again  and  again  it  came  to  me  what  a  nice  and 
proper  thing  it  would  be — so  simple  and  direct,  don't 
you  know — to  call  and  thank  him  for  the  constant 
inspiration  and  example  he  had  been  to  me.  But 
for  some  reason  I  never  carried  this  idea  out  into 
action. 

Last  night,  however,  on  my  way  back  in  high 
spirits  from  Don  John's,  I  looked  up  as  usual,  and 
there  was  the  black  shadow  bowing  away  behind  the 
yellow  blind  as  vigorously  as  ever.  I  suppose  I  was 
in  an  exalted  and  reckless  state  of  mind.  Anyhow, 
without  so  much  as  debating  the  point  within  my- 
self, I  got  off  the  car  with  all  speed,  entered  the 
"close"  between  two  shops  which  I  had  often  enough 
marked  as  the  most  probable  entrance  for  the  flats 
above,  and  ran  quickly  up  flight  after  flight  of  stairs 
as  if  this  were  my  hundredth  instead  of  my  first 
visit  to  the  place.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  only  then 
went  suddenly  weak  in  the  knees.  I  would  have 
given  worlds  to  have  got  away  now,  but  the  deed 
was  done.  Almost  at  once  the  door  was  opened 
by  a  wheezy  little  old  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves  wear- 
ing huge  carpet  slippers.  (Isn't  it  dreadful  to  think 


The  Camomile  147 

what  hundreds  of  shuffling,  odious  old  men  and 
women,  once  sweet  babes,  are  living  in  the  world?) 
This  one  had  a  thin  beard,  a  large  bald  head  and 
a  very  red  nose.  But  none  of  these  things  would 
have  mattered  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  sound  of 
the  fiddle,  which  I  now  heard  for  the  first  time. 
Imagine  "The  Bonny,  Bonny  Banks  o'  Loch  Lo- 
mond" being  played  on  a  bad  violin,  correctly,  but 
in  a  poor  and  very  painful  tone!  Still  there  it  was. 
It  was,  after  all,  the  diligence,  not  the  tone  nor  the 
music  chosen,  that  had  so  often  inspired  me,  and  I 
was  going  to  go  through  with  it. 

Odious  old  man  (grinning  and  looking  me  up  and 
down  out  of  his  red-rimmed  eyes}.  What's  your 
pleasure,  Missy? 

I  (rather  severely  trying  not  to  bolt  back  into  the 
street}.  I  just  wanted  to  convey  my  thanks  to  your 
son,  or  whoever  is  the  gentleman  that  practises  the 
violin.  (Here  my  breath  gave  out.) 

O.  O.  M.  It's  yin  o'  ma  sons  ye  want?  Step  in, 
Missy!  (Calling  out)  Edgar!  Here's  a  fine  young 
leddy  come  aifter  yin  o'  yuz! 

By  now  I  was  well  into  the  stuffy  little  lobby  and 
the  front  door  was  closed.  The  sound  of  the  fiddle 
mercifully  ceased,  and  in  a  kind  of  stupor  I  fol- 
lowed the  old  man  into  the  room  of  my  dreams  where 


148  The  Camomile 

his  son  was.  It  was  certainly  a  surprising  room. 
Almost  no  furniture  in  it,  but  upon  the  bare,  un- 
painted  boards  every  kind  of  known  and  unknown 
instrument  was  scattered.  And,  fiddle  in  hand  be- 
fore a  metal  music  stand,  with  the  garish  light  full 
in  his  blinking  eyes,  stood  something  like  a  white 
mouse  in  trousers. 

"Come  awa',  man,  shake  ban's  wi'  the  young 
leddy,"  said  the  father,  who  seemed  to  be  enjoying 
himself  immensely  from  the  way  he  kept  rubbing 
his  hands  together  and  grinning.  "She's  ta'en  a 
fancy  to  ye.  By  the  looks  o'  her  she'll  be  the  makin' 
o'  ye.  If  I  wis  twinty  years  younger  maseP  I'd  be 
for  her  like  a  fowerpenny  rocket!"  And  he  was 
about  to  leave  the  room  when  we  both  simultane- 
ously stopped  him. 

What  followed  in  actual  speech  I  cannot  remem- 
ber. It  was  certainly  nothing  important  nor  even 
amusing.  My  one  idea  was  to  get  out  of  the  house 
as  quickly  as  possible  without  being  rude.  I  could 
not  help  feeling  sorry  for  the  young  man.  He  was 
so  perfectly  at  sea.  (I  suppose  what  actually 
brought  me  there  will  remain  a  mystery  to  him  to 
the  end  of  his  days!)  At  the  same  time  I  must 
admit  I  hated  him,  most  unjustly,  but  none  the 
less  violently,  for  being  such  a  hideous  disappoint- 


The  Camomile  1149 

ment.  That  pale  hair,  those  white  eyelashes,  those 
bent  knees!  He  really  looked  a  hopeless  rag  of  a 
creature.  I  suppose  that  was  why  my  calling 
amused  the  old  father  so  highly. 

I  managed  to  tell  them,  though  I'm  certain  neither 
of  them  took  it  in,  that  I  had  been  studying  music 
for  some  years,  and  had  greatly  admired  the  dili- 
gence with  which  he  always  seemed  to  be  practicing 
every  time  one  passed  the  house.  Also  that  I  had 
come  just  to  tell  him  so,  as  I  thought  it  a  pity, 
when  people  felt  grateful  to  one  another,  that  they 
should  not  say  so.  It  sounded,  I  must  say,  incredi- 
bly feeble,  and  even  as  I  spoke  I  felt  they  could  not 
be  expected  to  believe  it.  In  fact,  I  no  longer  be- 
lieved it  myself. 

Edgar  never  uttered  a  word.  He  just  stood  blink- 
ing his  (I  really  think  they  were  pink)  eyes,  and 
shuffling  with  his  feet,  very  unattractively  uncom- 
fortable. But  the  old  man  told  me  they  were  a 
family  of  freak  musicians  who  were  much  in  re- 
quest at  grand  concerts  and  sa'rees  (soirees)  in 
Glasgow  during  the  winter  months,  and  in  summer 
they  toured  the  country  towns  and  villages  with  a 
concert  party.  There  were  four  sons,  all  fiddlers, 
so  that  at  different  times  it  may  have  been  any  of 
the  four,  or  all  in  turn,  that  I  had  seen  practising! 


150  The  Camomile 

He  begged  me  to  wait  till  the  other  three  came  in, 
when  I  could  "tak'  ma  choice."  (He  spoke  very 
broad  Glasgow.)  They  would  soon  be  off  on  tour, 
he  said,  and  as  they  were  short  of  "a  young  lady," 
he  made  the  suggestion  that  I  should  join  them.  If 
the  others,  he  said,  "hadna  mair  spunk  nor  yon 
sumph" — meaning  the  unhappy  Edgar — why  then, 
"he  wisna  that  auld  himseP,  but  .  .  ."  and  here  he 
leered  in  the  most  dreadful  manner  and  dug  Edgar 
in  the  ribs.  I  managed  somehow  to  make  my  way 
out,  the  old  man  begging  me  all  the  way  to  "bear 
up,"  "no  tae  lose  hert,"  and  "tae  mind  that  the 
young  fellas  nowadays  required  a  bit  o'  coaxing." 

Well,  that  is  all.  You  will  no  doubt  see  clearly 
enough  how  I  deceived  myself  over  the  whole  busi- 
ness, and  how  on  the  whole  the  old  man's  motive  for 
my  call  came  nearer  the  truth  than  my  own  explana- 
tion. Yet,  will  you  believe  me,  that  it  was  not  until 
a  good  hour  later  that  this  really  dawned  on  my  own 
mind!  It  was  just  after  supper  and  I  happened  to 
be  talking  to  Ronald  when  it  came  upon  me  in  a 
most  unpleasant  flash.  Indeed,  I  turned  so  red  in 
the  face  all  of  a  sudden  that  he  asked  me  what  was 
wrong.  I  did  not  tell  him  of  course.  I  said  one 
of  the  bones  of  my  stays  had  run  into  me. 


The  Camomile  151 

Sunday,  April  21.  Madge's  brother  Duncan,  the 
doctor  one  she  is  always  talking  of,  is  coming  home 
from  India  on  leave.  According  to  her  he  is  the 
most  wonderful  creature  that  ever  lived — handsome, 
witty,  brilliantly  successful  in  his  profession,  and  ex- 
tremely musical!  She  declares  that  he  sings  better 
than  she  does,  but  for  that  I'll  wait  till  I  hear  him, 
as  we  know  Madge  and  her  family!  This  Duncan 
is  of  course  her  full  brother,  not  like  Willie  who 
is  only  a  half  brother.  But  she  thinks  the  dread- 
ful Willie  such  a  marvel  of  cleverness  and  virtue 
that  I  am  taking  Duncan  with  a  pinch  of  salt,  any- 
how till  I  see  him.  He  is  seven  years  older  than 
Madge,  that  is  thirty.  They  are  all  surprised  that 
he  is  not  married  yet.  (Willie  got  engaged  just  the 
other  day.)  I  need  not  say  that  Madge  is  half 
crazy  with  excitement.  Duncan  does  not  reach  home 
till  the  first  week  in  May,  but  she  has  already  ar- 
ranged a  party  specially  for  me  to  meet  him  on  the 
ninth!  She  says  she's  sure  he  and  I  will  be  "con- 
genial spirits." 

Sunday,  April  28.  Nothing  worth  recording  has 
happened  all  this  week.  The  rain  has  hardly  ceased 
for  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  I  have  gone  dully 
about  feeling  as  if  a  weight  were  pressing  on  the 


152  The  Camomile 

top  of  my  head.  I  have  not  had  a  word  from  Don 
John  about  that  story  of  mine.  Nor  have  I  seen 
him  in  the  Library.  Perhaps  he  has  got  some  coach- 
ing to  do.  But  it  often  happens  like  this.  He  will 
be  at  the  Library  day  after  day,  and  then  for  a 
week  at  a  time  not  a  sign  of  him.  I  hope  any- 
how that  his  landlady  delivered  the  envelope  with 
my  MS.  I  never  liked  the  look  of  that  woman.  It 
may  of  course  simply  be  that  he  thinks  the  story 
bad,  and  doesn't  like  to  hurt  my  feelings  by  writ- 
ing and  saying  so.  But  I  should  have  thought  he 
would  at  least  have  acknowledged  it.  Should  not 
you? 

I  went  this  morning  with  Aunt  Harry  and  Ron- 
ald to  church,  and  to  amuse  myself  began  trying 
to  look  at  everybody  as  if  I  had  not  seen  one  of 
them  before.  I  made  believe  that  I  had  entered  for 
the  first  time  the  place  of  worship  of  some  strange 
race,  and,  as  travelers  do,  closely  observed  the  ap- 
pearance and  habits  of  the  aborigines. 

I  saw  in  this  way  a  number  of  interesting  things 
which  had  never  struck  me  before,  but  at  the  mo- 
ment I  shall  only  describe  one. 

Our  pew  is  in  what  is  called  "the  body  of  the 
church,"  that  is  to  say,  among  the  seats  enclosed 
by  the  side  passages;  and  in  one  of  the  front  pews 


The  Camomile  153 

at  the  side,  so  placed  that  we  have  an  excellent 
view  of  all  the  occupants,  there  sit  two  sisters 
called  the  Miss  McFies.  They  are  generally  spoken 
of  together,  but  if  they  should  have  to  be  dealt 
with  separately  we  speak  of  "the  pretty  Miss  Mc- 
Fie"  and  "not  the  pretty  Miss  McFie."  And  this, 
though  really  I  don't  think  strangers  would  notice 
very  much  difference  between  them.  The  pretty 
Miss  McFie  is  a  little  less  thin  than  the  other, 
and  has  a  slight  cleft  in  her  chin  which  used  to  be 
a  dimple.  At  least  Aunt  Harry  says  it  was.  They 
dress  the  same  even  to  their  hats  and  gloves,  and 
have  much  the  same  color  of  hair.  I  cannot  re- 
member any  change  in  the  appearance  of  either  since 
I  first  went  to  church  when  I  was  about  six  years 
old.  Neither  can  Ronald.  People  are  always  com- 
plimenting them  on  never  growing  any  older,  and 
they  smile,  showing  their  false  teeth  and  blushing, 
but  not  somehow  as  girls  blush.  I  never  thought 
of  them  myself  as  girls,  and  always  thought  it  rather 
absurd  when  Aunt  Harry  spoke  of  them  so.  It  was 
not  however  till  to-day  hi  church,  when  I  had  a 
good  fresh  look  at  them,  that  I  realized  with  a  shock 
that  they  were  quite,  quite  old!  There  was  only 
a  kind  of  crust  of  youth  all  over  them.  The  real, 
underneath  youth  must  have  withered  away  a  long 


154  The  Camomile 

time  ago  without  any  one  noticing  and  nothing  else 
had  taken  its  place.  They  made  me  think  of  pressed 
flowers.  It  really  was  a  horrible  discovery  to  think 
that  such  a  thing  could  happen  to  any  one.  I  re- 
member Dr.  Bruce  saying  that  at  one  time  every 
one  thought  Dr.  Sturrock  was  going  to  marry  the 
pretty  Miss  McFie.  I  am  sure  anyhow  that  both 
she  and  the  other  are  in  love  with  him  at  this  mo- 
ment. They  take  care  to  miss  nothing  in  which 
he  ever  takes  part,  and  if  he  speaks  kindly  to  them 
their  faces  change  and  brighten  marvelously.  But 
after  what  I  saw  in  church  to-day  it  almost  makes 
me  cry  to  think  of  them.  They  must  know  they  are 
old  in  spite  of  what  kind  people  say.  And  the  worst 
thing  of  all  is  that  they  seem  to  have  no  more  right 
to  a  place  among  the  middle-aged  or  the  old  than 
they  have  to  a  place  among  the  young.  I  suppose 
they  must  cling  to  the  end  to  their  shell  of  youth, 
never  having  acquired  the  experience  and  assurance 
which  would  enable  them  to  shed  it  in  the  natural 
order.  So  there  they  move  in  a  kind  of  limbo  like 
the  unbaptized  souls  in  Dante.  What  sort  of  hu- 
man contact  can  they  possibly  achieve?  It  is  truly 
a  hellish  question  to  consider.  For  myself  I'd  rather 
be  a  drunken  old  gray  rat  living  in  the  basement, 


The  Camomile  155 

like  Miss  Sprunt's  mother,  than  be  like  the  Miss 
McFies. 


April  29.  Behold  what  Heaven  has  sent  me  by 
this  morning's  post! 

"101  ENDRICK  STREET, 

"27  April. 
"Mv  DEAR  ATHENE: 

"You  are  right.  The  Angel  is  undoubtedly,  and 
by  a  long  way,  the  best  thing  you  have  as  yet  writ- 
ten. Anyhow  it  is  the  best  thing  you  have  let  me 
see,  and  it  confirms  my  belief  in  your  literary  voca- 
tion. It  is  fresh  and  vigorous,  even  in  its  faults 
entirely  individual,  and,  if  I  may  say  so  in  a  con- 
gratulatory sense,  a  markedly  feminine  piece  of 
work.  I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  not  having  ac- 
knowledged it  earlier,  but  I  was  not  well.  I  am  now 
better,  but  it  may  be  some  time  before  you  will  come 
across  me  at  the  Library,  as  I  am  engaged  upon  a  piece 
of  work  which  for  the  present  can  more  conveniently 
be  done  in  my  lodging.  Directly  I  am  myself  in- 
formed, however,  I  shall  let  you  know  how  The 
Angel  fares  on  her  trip  to  London.  Risking  a  fur- 
ther rebuff  from  my  friend,  the  editor  of  The  Spokes- 


1 56  The  Camomile 

man,  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  without  first  consult- 
ing you,  of  sending  her  to  him. 

"Your  sincere  friend  and  well-wisher, 

"JOHN  BARNABY." 

This  time  I  really  do  not  care  two  straws  what 
the  editor  thinks  of  it.  Don  John's  words  are 
enough.  I  know  he  would  never  have  written  so, 
simply  out  of  kindness.  He  must  have  thought 
it  good.  I  wish  I  could  see  him,  but  you  will  no- 
tice he  does  not  exactly  give  me  an  invitation!  I 
do  hope  he  is  really  better.  It  is  wretched  to  think 
of  him  as  being  ill  without  any  one  to  look  after  him. 

N.  B.  I  never  told  you  that  "Athene"  is  Don 
John's  name  for  me.  One  day,  when  I  told  him 
that  from  the  first  I  had  nicknamed  him  Don  John, 
he  replied,  "And  you,  I  always  named  'Athene.' ' 
And  when  I  asked  him  why,  he  gave  me  one  of  his 
kindest  smiles  and  said:  "Because  you  have  gray 
eyes,  wisdom  is  your  quality,  and  there  is  just  a 
hint  of  some  grave  goddess  in  your  appearance." 
I  was  of  course  deeply  flattered,  especially  as  he 
is  not  the  kind  of  man  that  makes  a  habit  of  pretty 
speeches. 

May  1.  This  was  such  a  lovely  fresh  morning, 
I  went  in  to  town  first  thing  with  Ronald  and  we 


The  Camomile  157 

ate  rhubarb  and  whipped  cream  in  a  shop  on  the 
way  and  made  believe  that  summer  was  here.  He 
spoke  with  bright  eyes  about  America. 

Coming  home  in  the  car  last  night  from  one  of 
the  Tuesday  orchestral  concerts  I  sat  opposite  to 
a  middle-aged  man — not  specially  good-looking  or 
smart — whose  face  I  could  have  stared  at  for  hours 
on  end.  How  I  envied  him!  The  observant  smile 
in  his  eyes,  the  grim  lines  round  his  mouth  showed 
quite  clearly  that  he  was  right  in  life,  that  he  was 
finished  for  good  with  that  "paddling  near  the  shore" 
business  of  youth.  It  is  all  very  fine  for  people  to 
say  how  good  it  is  to  be  young,  but  whatever  this 
man  might  tell  you  in  words,  I  could  see  that  he 
enjoyed  being  experienced  far  more  than  I  enjoy 
being  inexperienced.  I  am  sure  he  did  not  envy 
me  nearly  as  much  as  I  envied  him.  He  may  have 
wished  that  he  had  more  hair  and  fewer  wrinkles, 
though  I  gravely  doubt  even  this.  He  certainly 
did  not  wish  himself  back  again  on  the  brink  of 
things.  Is  it  not  truly  frightful,  Ruby,  the  constant 
fear  one  has  that  one  will  never  oneself  have  any 
fullness  of  experience,  that  life  is  going  to  pass  one 
by  as  it  has  passed,  for  example,  the  Miss  McFies! 
Do  middle-aged  people  forget  that  onlooking  terror 
of  youth?  I  see  the  lovers  hi  the  Park,  and  I  won- 


158  The  Camomile 

der,  "Shall  I  ever  have  a  lover?"  I  see  the  mothers 
with  perambulators,  and  ask,  "Shall  I  ever  have 
a  baby  of  my  own?"  But  that  middle-aged  man 
in  the  car,  looking  at  the  lovers  and  the  babies, 
must  smile  and  say,  "Yes,  I  know  all  about  that!" 
and  he  must  hold  his  own  unique  experience  be- 
tween the  palms  of  his  hands,  as  it  were,  to  marvel 
at  and  make  the  best  of.  No  one  can  take  that  from 
nim. 

I  know,  of  course,  that  there  are  whole  worlds 
of  experience  quite  outside  of  love,  marriage  and 
children,  and  I  can  very  well  understand  how,  even 
a  woman  (to  whom  love  must  surely  be  supremely 
important  by  nature)  for  some  special,  passionately 
chosen  reason,  might  be  willing  to  forgo  it  But 
should  there  be  no  such  reason?  Should  one  be 
simply  an  ordinary  mortal  desiring  one's  own  full 
share  in  the  rich,  normal  life  of  humanity?  Then. 
for  either  a  man  or  a  woman,  what  is  there  in  exist- 
ence to  make  up  for  such  an  omission?  The  poor 
Miss  McFies — no  wonder  they  simply  dare  not  let 
themselves  look  old!  Think  of  having  to  stare  night 
and  day  in  the  face  of  this  fate — that  you  had 
missed  life!  "But,"  I  can  hear  you  say,  "do  your 
Miss  McFies  face  it?  Could  the  pretty  Miss  McFie 
have  that  exasperating  little  giggle  at  the  end  of 


The  Camomile  §59 

each  sentence  if  she  were  realty  facing  anything? 
Would  not  any  one  with  the  courage  to  face  so 
grisly  a  thing  with  a  simper  have  long  ago  plunged 
into  life,  even  if  it  woe  only  to  have  made  a  mess 
of  it?"  Perhaps.  I  cannot  tefl.  It  may  be  that 
she  only  faces  it  now  and  again  when  it  is  forced 
upon  her — say,  when  she  has  a  sore  throat  and  cant 
sleep  in  the  night-  Then,  instead  of  the  thrilling  and 
feverish  thoughts  that  come  to  me  at  such  times 
in  spite  of  the  pain,  so  that  fire  seems  to  run  in  my 
veins  and  my  head  is  bursting  with  splendid  ideas, 
she  may  have  to  lie  gazing  into  the  eyeless  sockets 
of  that  specter.  What  a  fearful  thought! 

But  I  must  say  most  middle-aged  people  do  look 
as  if  they  had  lived,  and  this  makes  them  interest- 
ing and  enviable,  at  least  to  me.  If  only  they 
would  tell  us  more  about  their  living!  But  either 
they  wont  or  they  cant.  Even  when  you  ask  them 
about  something  quite  definite,  as  I  have  sometimes 
asked  Aunt  Harry,  they  dont  seem  to  know  any- 
thing really  psy*»*"»l  or  interesting  about  themselves. 
Are  they  ashamed,  or  are  they  ignorant?  One  has 
to  go  guessing  from  their  faces,  which  isnt  at  all 
easy.  It  is  too  bad.  It  almost  seems  as  if  it  were 
as  rare  for  people  to  be  able  to  tefl  you  about  their 
actions  afterwards  as  to  tell  you  beforehand.  Will 


160  The  Camomile 

Laura  ever  tell  her  children  why  she  married  their 
father?  Does  she  know  herself?  Or  is  it  that 
she  would  refuse  to  tell  them?  You  cannot  think 
how  I  puzzle  over  such  questions.  With  Laura  I 
do  think  there  is  the — let  us  hope  exceptional — no- 
tion, held  like  a  religious  belief,  that  one  must  never 
speak  of  anything  really  intimate.  Her  father's 
death — that  is  a  "disgrace,"  a  "skeleton  in  the  cup- 
board," and  must  never  be  mentioned  frankly  and 
humanly.  Her  marriage — that  is  too  "sacred"  or 
"mysterious"  or  something,  to  bear  the  light  of  com- 
mon day.  That  is  to  say,  her  experience  may  not 
be  used  to  help,  interest  or  enlighten  others,  but  must 
die  sealed  up  with  her.  She  would  be  frantic  if  she 
guessed  that  I  had  drawn  The  Angel  from  my 
knowledge  of  her.  She  would  say  I  had  no  right 
to  use  any  such  knowledge  as  material  for  fiction, 
all  such  knowledge  being  "sacred."  Oh,  that  word! 
Are  not  the  uses  of  art  more  sacred  than  a  million 
domesticities?  How  thankful  I  am  for  the  reckless 
and  indiscreet  ones  who  have  bared  their  own  hearts 
and  failures  (and  any  one  else's  they  could  read 
aright)  to  the  world,  holding  nothing  sacred  but 
truth!  Who  cares  to-day  that  Leigh  Hunt  was  so 
much  hurt  by  Dickens's  Harold  Skimpole?  Laura 
would  say  that  to  prove  my  right  to  imagination  I 


The  Camomile  161 

should  write  lies  about  people  living  in  Borneo 
where  I  happen  never  to  have  been.  As  if  there 
were  anything  more  difficult  and  needing  more  imag- 
ination than  for  me  to  see  for  myself  what  is  be- 
fore my  eyes  in  Glasgow  and  to  set  it  down  so  that 
others  may  see  it  precisely  from  my  peculiar  angle! 
But,  no,  the  Lauras  of  the  world  will  never  see  this 
if  their  own  egoism  happens  to  be  involved.  They 
will  allow  Dickens  his  Harold  Skimpole  because 
that  is  "different."  They  will  not  condemn  Mau- 
passant, although  they  may  learn  that  he  admit- 
ted never  having  "invented"  either  a  character  or 
an  incident  for  a  single  one  of  his  stories.  All  that 
is  already  accomplished,  recognized  and  removed 
into  the  light  of  fame,  is  "different."  What  is  so 
curious  is  their  complete  failure  to  see  that  the  more 
anything  is  talked  of  and  examined,  the  more  closely 
it  holds  its  secret.  I  don't  suppose  Leigh  Hunt 
ever  made  up  his  mind  which  vexed  him  more — Har- 
old Skimpole's  likeness  to  himself  or  Harold  Skim- 
pole's  unlikeness!  In  all  their  egoism  the  Lauras 
underrate  their  own  wonderfulness. 

May  3.  This  morning  at  prayers  we  were  read- 
ing about  the  sun  being  darkened  at  the  ninth  hour, 
when  Aunt  Harry  stopped  and,  turning  to  the  serv- 


162  The  Camomile 

ants,  said  rather  severely:  "I  believe  that  this  was 
a  supernatural  darkening  of  the  sun  and  no  natural 
eclipse  which  could  be  accounted  for  by  those  mod- 
ern scientists.  I  was  taught  to  believe  this  by  peo- 
ple better  than  myself,  and  I  shall  continue  to  do 
so  until  in  another  world  I  may  be  told  that  I  was 
wrong."  Not  one  of  us  smiled,  but  I  took  it  down 
word  for  word  on  the  fly-leaf  of  my  Bible  to  make 
sure  I  had  it  right. 

May  5.  That  about  Dobbin  (I  beg  her  pardon— 
Dobinova  now)  and  her  first  concert  in  London,  and 
all  you  tell  me  of  her  history  between  the  time  we 
knew  her  and  her  debut,  is  indeed  interesting.  Best 
of  all  that  her  playing  at  eighteen  even  outdoes  the 
promise  she  gave  at  fourteen.  Not  that  it  is  more 
than  I  expected,  for  if  ever  any  one  worked  hard 
those  three  years,  she  did,  and  think  what  she  was 
to  start  with!  Oh,  Ruby,  how  I  wish  I  had  been 
with  you  last  week!  My  only  comfort  is  your  as- 
surance that  she  will  before  long  actually  give  a 
concert  in  Glasgow.  And  even  that  does  not  quite 
make  up  for  the  fact  that  you  and  I  are  hearing  her 
separately. 

The  real  surprise  of  your  letter,  though,  is  her 
running  away  like  that  from  Knopf.  Her  own  ex- 


The  Camomile  163 

planation  may  be  the  correct  one,  but  somehow  I 
myself  think  that  it  could  not  have  been  so  much 
the  mere  fact  of  his  making  love  to  her  (he  must 
have  done  that  from  the  first)  as  his  going  on  with 
it  in  spite  of  his  really  serious  affair  with  the 
Friedlander  and  his  divorce  and  everything  all  at 
the  same  time.  That,  I  suspect,  offended  her  York- 
shire sense  of  decency,  and  I  don't  wonder!  But 
the  spirit  of  the  child!  For  I'm  sure  she  was  more 
than  a  little  in  love  with  Knopf  herself,  and  cer- 
tainly knew  his  value  as  a  teacher.  And  to  think 
of  her  simply  packing  her  bag,  spending  the  last 
Mark  of  her  allowance  on  a  ticket  to  Leipzig,  and 
presenting  herself  to  Serbsky  without  any  creden- 
tials except  her  ten  broad  finger-tips!  Well,  she  de- 
serves success! 

As  for  Knopf  and  the  Friedlander,  I  never 
thought  he  would  have  done  it.  To  be  sure  he  was 
long  enough  about  it.  But  it  just  shows  he  must 
have  cared  more  than  any  of  us  knew,  for  as  you 
say  it  has  meant  his  losing  not  only  his  post  but 
the  more  than  probability  of  succeeding  old  Eller- 
mann  as  Direktor.  He  was  fond  of  his  children  too. 
Do  you  remember  how  sorry  we  used  to  feel  for 
the  Friedlander  because  she  always  went  about  look- 
ing so  sad  and  untidy,  as  if  she  didn't  care  what 


164  The  Camomile 

became  of  her?  I  wonder  if  she  looks  more  cheer- 
ful now?  But  what  a  couple,  Knopf  and  Fried-  . 
lander!  Won't  they  just  fight!  How  I  should  like 
to  know  all  about  their  married  life!  She,  of  course, 
is  as  much  of  a  genius  as  he,  and  by  a  long  way 
the  better  pianist,  and  in  spite  of  her  face  being 
so  often  spotty  (perhaps  it  isn't  now)  there  was 
something  very  attractive  about  her  even  when  she 
wasn't  playing.  When  she  was  playing  I'd  have 
given  her  my  heart  to  eat. 

How  I  did  laugh  over  your  story  of  our  fair  girl 
from  Bristol!  Wouldn't  you  have  given  anything 
to  have  been  there  when  Lilienthal  tried  to  kiss  her 
and  had  his  Stradivarius  smashed  to  splinters  on  his 
own  bald  head  by  way  of  remonstrance!  All  the 
same  I  think  it  was  mean  of  her  to  report  him  as 
well  and  get  him  the  sack.  Don't  you?  Surely  his 
hurt  vanity  and  broken  Strad.  were  enough  punish- 
ment. What  a  spiteful  creature!  I  guess  Lilien- 
thal will  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  kiss  a  pupil  again! 
But  if  it  had  been  Knopf,  now,  would  our  friend 
have  carried  her  revenge  so  far?  It  must  be  al- 
lowed that  poor  Lilienthal  is  an  ugly  fat  little  Jew, 
which  makes  for  fierce  virtue  in  fair  girls  from 
Bristol! 

I  wonder  if  those  Frankfort  days  seem  to  you 


The  Camomile  165 

as  far  away  as  they  do  to  me?  I  see  them  as  a 
series  of  pictures,  fine  and  clear,  but  tiny,  as  if 
viewed  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope.  Will 
the  whole  of  my  life  appear  to  me  so  when  I  am 
old?  Is  it  so  that  people  see  their  lives  when  they 
come  to  die?  If  I  am  walking  down  a  Glasgow 
street  on  a  sunny  day  when  windows  are  open,  and 
up  in  one  of  the  houses  some  one  begins  in  a  busi- 
nesslike manner  to  play  scales,  I  am  on  the  instant 
transported  with  overwhelming  emotion.  The  fla- 
vor, the  concentrated  essence  of  three  whole  years 
seems  to  lie  on  my  tongue  and  to  rise  in  my  nostrils 
—for  with  me  the  senses  of  taste  and  smell  are 
always  the  most  immediately  responsive  to  reminis- 
cent emotion.  And  this  then  is  memory!  This 
inexplicably  tender  and  despairing  emotion  over 
one's  own  past!  I  understand  what  Tennyson 
meant  when  he  called  it  "some  divine  despair." 

Do  you  remember  one  evening  we  called  by  chance 
on  that  queer  Mr.  Hermann  who  was  so  fond  of 
you,  and  he  was  practising  organ-pedaling  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  without  any  organ,  and  he  gave  us  rus- 
set apples  to  eat  and  made  you  teach  him  to  sing 
"She's  my  dainty  love,  She  is  my  sweet,  my  honey 
dove"?  Now  why  should  I  see  that  picture  so 


1 66  The  Camomile 

clearly,  and  why  should  seeing  it  make  me  want  to 
weep  ineffable  tears? 

Then  there  was  my  Mr.  Hunstable  who  always 
looked  so  terribly  poor.  (Why  do  people  who  look 
poor  have  such  a  deadly  attraction  for  me?)  I  was 
more  in  love  with  him  than  I  ever  admitted  to  you. 
Often  and  often  when  I  said  I  was  just  running  out 
to  post  a  letter  at  the  corner  box,  I  went  only  to 
lean  against  the  railings  and  stare  up  at  his  lighted 
window.  But  perhaps  you  guessed  it? 

All  that  behind  me  already!  It  makes  me  feel 
old.  Yet  even  now  I  don't  feel  I  know  much  about 
reality. 

May  9.  Well,  I  have  met  the  great  Duncan 
(Madge  Bruce's  brother)  and  he  is  really  nice, 
though  not  for  me.  He  knows  how  to  treat  one 
neither  too  gallant  nor  too  brotherly,  and  he  has 
none  of  Willie's  commonness.  At  least  I  have  not 
seen  any  so  far.  Indeed,  no  one  would  suspect  any 
relationship  between  the  two.  He  would  never,  as 
Willie  does  when  he  sees  you  home  from  their  house, 
say,  upon  reaching  your  door,  "And  what  am  I  to 
have  for  seeing  you  home?"  and  then  not  seem  to 
mind  when  you  ignore  the  question.  (Do  you  not 
agree  that  the  vulgarity  of  asking  a  girl  for  a  kiss 


The  Camomile  167 

under  such  circumstances  is  more  forgivable  than 
the  casualness  of  not  minding  whether  she  gives  it 
or  not?) 

It  is  true  that  Duncan  hasn't  seen  me  home  yet. 
Nor  have  I  heard  him  sing.  You  would  never  guess 
that  he  was  thirty.  He  is  very  clean  looking  (not 
"an  egg-spoonful  of  dust"  about  him,  I  feel  sure), 
with  fairish  hair,  laughing  eyes — dark  like  Madge's 
but  not  short-sighted — and  a  good  forehead.  He 
doesn't  speak  nearly  so  Glasgow  as  the  others,  yet 
has  not  that  horrible  veneer  on  his  speech  that  so 
many  Glasgow  people  acquire  when  they  have  been 
long  away,  and  which  they  fondly  think  will  be 
taken  for  an  "English"  accent.  In  fact,  both  in 
speech  and  manner  he  has  just  the  amount  of  polish 
that  is  pleasant.  The  right  kind  of  polish,  to  my 
mind,  is  that  which  allows  the  grain  of  the  wood 
to  show  through.  With  veneer,  you  merely  guess 
that  there  is  unpolishable  deal  underneath:  i.e.,  only 
good  woods  will  take  on  true  polish. 

Madge,  who  ran  in  this  evening  in  a  state  of 
excitement  over  things  in  general,  says  that  my  hair 
was  looking  "extra  nice"  this  afternoon.  I  had 
thought  myself,  when  I  was  doing  it,  that  it  had 
happened  to  go  rather  better  than  usual,  but  in 
such  things  you  never  can  be  sure  till  some  one  else 


1 68  The  Camomile 

tells  you  without  being  asked.  She  told  me,  too, 
what  Duncan  said  after  I  went  away.  "She's  all 
right,"  were  his  words.  And  "Let  Glasgow  flour- 
ish!" 

It  was  certainly  the  jolliest  afternoon  I  have 
spent  for  a  good  while,  though  I  can't  think  of  any- 
thing special  in  the  way  of  incident  that  made  it 
so.  One  small  coincidence  is  perhaps  worth  record- 
ing here.  Duncan  was  looking  at  an  illustrated  pa- 
per and  one  of  the  pictures  was  a  group  of  about 
twenty  young  men.  He  passed  it  to  me,  pointing  to 
the  group  and  saying,  "Choose  the  five  faces  you 
like  best  out  of  these,"  and  then  he  did  the  same 
to  Madge,  and  when  we  came  to  compare  our  choices, 
my  five  were  the  very  same  as  his,  but  only  two  of 
Madge's  were  the  same.  He  was  greatly  impressed. 
I  did  not  tell  him  that  two  out  of  my  five  were 
chosen  from  my  instinct  for  his  choice,  rather  than 
from  my  own  sheer  preference.  All  the  same,  it 
was  quite  as  interesting  that  way  as  the  other. 

May  11.  Poor  old  Mungo  is  no  use  as  a  mimic, 
though  he  enjoys  himself.  His  secret  ambition  is 
to  be  able  to  sing  comic  songs,  and  one  of  the  joys 
of  our  lives  (Ronald's  and  mine)  is  to  hear  him 
try  "Two  Fish  Balls."  He  makes  it  sound  like  a 


The  Camomile  169 

dirge.  As  he  is  very  sensitive  about  the  wrong  kind 
of  laughter,  Ronald  and  I  have  to  control  nearly  all 
ours  and  just  let  a  little  escape  at  the  right  times. 
And  we  almost  perish  with  the  pain  of  it.  I  am 
lucky  in  being  at  the  piano  so  that  I  can  hide  my 
face.  Ronald  screens  his  with  one  of  his  crutches. 
Then  at  the  end  Mungo  asks  us  very  earnestly  if  we 
think  he  is  getting  any  funnier!  He  is  a  great  ad- 
mirer of  Harry  Lauder,  but  hardly  laughs  at  all 
when  he  goes  to  hear  Lauder  sing — he  is  always  so 
absorbed  in  "trying  to  find  out  how  that  chap  gets 
his  effects." 

Sunday,  May  12.  It  does  nothing  but  rain  this 
month  and  to-day  there  is  a  cruel  biting  wind  as 
well.  When  I  remember  May  in  Frankfort  .  .  .  ! 

May  15.  The  Lockharts  have  given  a  musical 
At  Home.  I  was  invited  in  the  ordinary  way,  though 
I  knew  my  presence  was  only  wanted  to  help  pro- 
vide the  music — desto  besserl 

As  they  have  no  music  in  themselves  and  are  too 
stingy  to  pay  professionals  to  come  and  play  to  their 
friends,  they  simply  get  together  a  party.  Then  a 
few  days  beforehand,  all  those  who  are  supposed  to 
sing  or  play  at  all,  are  written  to  again  and  asked 


170  The  Camomile 

to  "bring  their  music."  Can  you  imagine  anything 
more  different  from  our  musical  evenings  at  Zilcher's 
house  or  Knopf's  when  d'Albert  or  Lamond  would 
be  the  honored  guest  and  play  to  us  for  hours?  And 
when  even  Zilcher  would  not  consider  himself  in 
practice  enough  to  take  his  place  at  the  piano  unless 
it  happened  to  be  just  after  one  of  his  concerts? 

There  we  were,  however,  at  the  Lockharts'  grand 
house,  all  with  our  music  carefully  left  upstairs  with 
our  cloaks  and  hats.  Madge  had  brought  some  songs 
for  herself  and  for  Duncan,  who  swore  he  had  come 
only  because  Madge  had  said  I  was  sure  to  be  play- 
ing. The  meanest  thing  of  all,  I  thought,  was  that 
a  Mr.  Logan,  who  is  an  overworked  organist  and 
piano  teacher,  a  real  professional  musician,  who 
happens  to  be  good-natured  and  sociable,  had  been 
bidden  there  quite  under  false  pretenses.  I  mean 
he  had  not  been  asked  to  bring  his  music — Mrs. 
Lockhart  being  aware  that  he  plays  without — and 
he  had  turned  up  thinking  it  was  just  a  few  friends 
at  afternoon  tea,  in  which  case,  as  he  told  me  aft- 
erwards, he  wouldn't  in  the  least  have  minded  play- 
ing to  them  for  an  hour  on  end.  But  here  he  found 
himself  well  wedged  into  the  Lockharts'  medieval 
drawing-room  with  close  upon  a  hundred  other 
guests,  and  being  sweetly  called  upon  to  open  the 


The  Camomile  171 

proceedings  with  a  piano  solo!  As  Mrs.  L.  no 
doubt  knew,  he  could  not  well  refuse  (though  I 
will  bet  Zilcher,  for  all  his  good  nature,  would  have 
done  so!)  because  there  were  so  many  members 
there,  including  the  minister,  of  the  church  where 
he  is  organist,  and  his  refusal  would  have  made  an 
unpleasant  impression.  But  my  word,  he  was  sick! 
He  played  one  short  piece,  none  too  carefully,  ex- 
cused himself  on  the  plea  of  "a  professional  engage- 
ment" and  rushed  from  the  house.  Quite  right,  too! 
Don't  you  think  it  a  disgrace  that  a  woman  like 
Mrs.  Lockhart  should  think  an  artist,  in  return  for 
an  invitation  to  her  house  and  a  cup  of  tea  there, 
should  be  falling  over  himself  to  put  his  art  at  her 
service,  and  without  being  asked  beforehand! 

However — enough  of  that.  Madge  sang,  not  quite 
so  well  as  usual,  and  Duncan  sang — for  aught  I 
know  his  best  or  his  worst — but  most  surprisingly 
well.  He  has  the  same  lovely  freshness  as  Madge, 
but  more  art  and  a  much  finer  taste  in  songs.  It 
was  a  treat  to  play  for  him.  I  got  quite  carried 
out  of  myself,  and  felt  in  perfect  harmony  with  him, 
and  he  said  he  had  never  had  so  sympathetic  an 
accompanist.  We  are  arranging  to  practise  together 
twice  a  week,  for  in  spite  of  this  chance  success  I 
badly  want  rubbing  up  in  the  matter  of  accompani- 


172  The  Camomile 

ments.  When  I  was  not  at  the  piano  this  after- 
noon I  was  mostly  sitting  in  a  corner  with  Duncan 
talking.  I  must  say  he  gives  one  a  nice  safe  feel- 
ing as  if  all  the  problems  of  life  were  suddenly 
smoothed  out  and  there  was  nothing  left  to  worry 
about. 

There  was  one  notable  moment  towards  the  end  of 
the  At  Home.  Every  one  with  any  capacity  what- 
ever, and  a  good  few  with  none,  had  sung  or  played 
— while  the  others  had  murmured  "Thank  you," 
"What  a  sweet  thing  that  is,"  "What  is  it  called?" 
"Of  course!"  "I  always  forget  the  names  of  the 
pieces,  don't  you?" — and  after  the  decent  interval 
of  a  few  seconds,  had  started  chattering  to  their 
neighbors  on  ordinary  topics  with  immense  relief. 
Then  just  as  the  spring  seemed  to  be  running  dry, 
Laura,  of  all  people,  said  that  if  they  liked  she  would 
play  them  a  solo  on  a  comb.  A  comb  and  some 
tissue  paper  were  got  for  her,  and  with  a  very  at- 
tractive mixture  of  mischief  and  nervousness  she 
sat  down  before  the  piano  and  gave  us  Yankee 
Doodle! 

It  was  an  amusing  turn,  of  course,  and  all  the 
more  surprising  that  it  came  from  Laura.  She  car- 
ried it  off  very  well,  playing  the  accompaniment  with 
her  left  hand  and  holding  the  comb  to  her  mouth 


The  Camomile  173 

with  her  right.  I  suspect  she  must  have  practised 
it  quite  hard  in  secret.  But  the  real  revelation  was 
the  joyous  response  of  the  audience.  What  uncon- 
cealed relief  in  every  face !  And  the  applause — what 
a  reflection  upon  any  applause  that  had  gone  be- 
fore !  Beethoven,  Chopin,  Schubert — for  the  giving  of 
sheer  pleasure,  which  of  these  could  compare  with 
Yankee  Doodle  sung,  or  rather  squeaked,  through 
the  teeth  of  a  comb? 

Just  before  I  left  with  the  Bruces  Mrs.  Lock- 
hart  came  up  to  me,  and  in  a  very  mysterious  fash- 
ion whispered  that  she  wanted  me  to  call  and  see 
her  about  "something  very  special"  at  three  o'clock 
next  Saturday  afternoon.  I  wonder  what  can  it 
be?  Perhaps  she  is  not  satisfied  with  the  progress 
of  Rosemary  and  Fiona.  If  that  is  it,  I  shall  tell 
her  straight  out  that  in  my  opinion  it  is  throwing 
away  time  and  money  to  go  on  with  their  piano 
lessons.  They  are  both  in  the  highest  degree  un- 
musical. 

May  18.  I  felt  a  perfect  fool  this  afternoon,  and 
an  angry  fool  into  the  bargain.  During  the  week 
I  have  had  several  very  fair  mornings  of  writing 
at  my  Room,  but  those  pupils  of  mine  cut  up  my 
day  deplorably.  This  morning  I  was  happily  free, 


174  The  Camomile 

and  after  some  shopping  for  Aunt  Harry  was  able 
for  once  to  settle  down  in  the  comfortable  knowl- 
edge that  I  might  safely  allow  myself  to  get  ab- 
sorbed in  what  I  was  at.  I  looked  at  my  watch  once 
and  saw  that  it  was  already  twelve  o'clock.  "That's 
an  hour  more  till  lunch,"  I  told  myself.  Then  in 
what  seemed  about  ten  minutes  I  thought  I'd  look 
again,  just  to  make  sure  that  I  had  seen  aright  and 
to  find  how  my  hour  was  wearing.  And  it  was 
past  two! 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  my  appointment  with  Mrs. 
Lockhart,  I  could  have  gone  on  writing  all  the  after- 
noon. As  it  was,  I  went  on  till  about  three  o'clock 
and  grudged  very  much  having  to  stop  then. 

I  found  my  lady  reclining,  nicely  arranged,  upon 
a  couch  in  the  drawing-room,  and  wearing  a  tea- 
gown  which  on  almost  any  one  else  would  have 
looked  something  more  than  merely  expensive.  Al- 
ready some  time  ago  she  had  told  me  that  she  was 
"taking  care  of  herself,"  but  as  I  never  knew  her 
to  do  anything  else,  I  give  you  my  word  the  phrase 
had  conveyed  absolutely  nothing  to  me  but  a  slight 
sense  of  bewilderment  that  she  should  be  at  the 
trouble  of  telling  me  anything  so  obvious.  Only 
when  I  saw  her  this  afternoon  did  it  dawn  on  me 
that  she  was  expecting  another  baby.  But  what 


The  Camomile  175 

on  earth  could  it  have  to  do  with  me?  Or  with  the 
grand  piano  in  its  carved  oak  case  (of  which  I'll 
tell  you  more  in  a  minute),  which  stood  invitingly 
open  near  the  couch? 

Can  you  guess  what  she  wanted?  She  wanted  me 
to  play  for  an  hour  before  tea,  not  to  her,  as  she  is 
incapable  of  listening  for  so  long  with  any  degree 
of  attention  or  enjoyment  to  classical  music  (and 
this  must,  she  said,  be  classical),  but  to  the  unborn 
child,  so  that  he — she  was  very  sure  about  its  sex, 
the  other  three  being  girls — might  have  a  better 
chance  than  the  others  of  being  musical!  Now 
I  come  to  write  it  down,  it  looks  as  if  the  whole  in- 
cident might  have  been  rather  sweet  and  pathetic. 
In  fact,  it  was  neither.  Her  heavy  solemnity,  the 
expensive,  unbecoming  tea-gown,  the  calm  assump- 
tion that  I  should  be  only  too  delighted  to  play 
in  this  way,  without  any  question  of  a  fee,  "every 
day  or  every  second  day  for  the  next  few  months," 
while  she  took  her  afternoon  siesta — these  things, 
quite  apart  from  the  embarrassment  of  the  situa- 
tion, made  a  most  offensive  impression  on  me. 

As  I  had  come,  I  sat  down  and  executed  two  Bach 
Preludes  and  Fugues,  choosing  the  very  severest 
of  those  I  know  by  heart.  Executed  is  just  about 
the  right  word !  I  played  them  with  such  vigor  that 


176  The  Camomile 

sleep  was  out  of  the  question  for  her,  and  I  scarcely 
paused  between  the  end  of  one  and  the  beginning 
of  another.  Strangely  enough  I  don't  think  I  ever 
played  them  better.  I  was  in  a  devil  of  a  temper 
to  start  with,  but  the  piano  is  a  fine  one  as  regards 
sound,  and  with  the  last  chord  I  emerged  in  the 
highest  spirits.  Mrs.  Lockhart  made  a  wan  attempt 
to  thank  me  suitably,  but  it  was  clear  that  she  had 
expected  Chopin  at  his  tenderest  or  Schumann  at  his 
most  yearning,  not  this  performance  "rather  like 
exercises."  When  she  had  said  her  say  I  shook 
hands,  told  her  I  couldn't  stay  to  tea,  and  departed. 
Nothing  was  said  about  a  second  performance.  I 
shall  simply  not  go  again,  and  I  am  confident  that 
she  will  never  more  mention  the  matter. 

About  that  piano  of  hers,  I  feel  there  is  some- 
thing so  characteristic  here  that  I  must  put  it  down 
for  you.  I  have  already  told  you  that  the  Lock- 
harts  are  wealthy  people,  and  they  think  a  lot  of 
themselves  and  are  a  lot  thought  of  for  that  reason 
alone.  At  least  it  is  difficult  to  discover  any  other 
reason  for  such  a  good  opinion  as  is  held  of  them, 
but  in  Glasgow  this  one  reason  amply  suffices. 
Their  fine,  large  house  is  furnished  in  the  style  that 
makes  other  Glasgow  people  dining  there  look  round 
a  room  and  tot  up  in  their  minds  the  price  of  the 


The  Camomile  177 

curtains,  carpets,  chandeliers,  pictures,  inlaid  cab- 
inets, etc.,  etc.,  so  that  when  they  speak  of  it  out- 
side they  say  with  a  solemn,  almost  religious  ex- 
pression on  their  faces,  "Mind  you,  the  things  in 
yon  drawing-room  alone  cannot  have  cost  much  un- 
der £5,000!"  Are  things  really  as  blatant  as  this 
in  London?  They  are  as  bad,  I  daresay.  But  surely 
the  London  vulgarity  takes  a  subtler  form?  The 
other  night  at  the  Braces'  house  Dr.  Bruce  was  tell- 
ing us  he  had  been  spending  a  week  with  Sir  An- 
drew Crossmyloof,  who  has  bought  a  little  estate 
in  Ayrshire.  "And  is  it  a  nice  house?"  I  asked. 
Would  you  believe  it,  Dr.  Bruce  stopped  eating  (we 
were  at  dinner)  and  stared  at  me  with  perfectly 
round  horrified  eyes  (so  like  Madge's  on  such  oc- 
casions) as  if  I  had  said  something  sacrilegious. 

"A  nice  house!"  he  repeated  my  words.  "Glen 
Grozet  is  not  a  house.  It  is  a  gentleman's  mansion, 
a  residence!"  Just  then  my  eyes  met  Duncan's,  and 
he  very  solemnly  winked  at  me.  Thank  goodness 
for  that! 

But  to  return  to  the  piano.  The  Lockharts  have 
furnished  their  drawing-room  with  elaborately  carved 
oak.  The  windows  are  stained  and  leaded  like 
church  windows,  the  chairs  upholstered  with  the 
richest  Lyons  brocaded  velvet,  the  walls  hung  with 


178  The  Camomile 

expensive  reproductions  of  medieval  tapestries. 
The  whole  effect  is  very  rich  and  solid,  but  not  in 
the  least  suitable  to  the  house  or  to  modern  Glasgow. 

It  will  at  once  jump  to  your  mind  that  in  this 
room  the  piano  must  have  presented  a  real  prob- 
lem. A  piano  there  must  be.  Neither  Mr.  nor 
Mrs.  Lockhart  plays  a  note,  and  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  their  children  had  not  begun  to  learn.  Fur- 
ther, no  one  in  the  house  enjoys  any  kind  of  music 
half  so  honestly  as  they  enjoy  the  music  of  a  barrel- 
organ.  But  rich  people  of  their  kind  dare  not  say 
frankly,  "We  are  not  musical,"  and  have  done  with 
it.  They  dare  not  have  a  house  without  a  piano, 
and  it  must  be  a  grand  piano,  and  by  one  of  the 
best  makers.  But  how  to  fit  in  a  Steinway  grand 
with  all  that  carved  oak  and  tapestry?  That  was 
the  question,  and  I  imagine  Mrs.  Lockhart,  when 
she  was  furnishing  as  a  bride,  must  have  spent  some 
sleepless  nights  over  this  difficulty.  On  one  side  her 
musical,  on  the  other  her  artistic  taste  was  threat- 
ened. 

Well,  she  had  a  bright  idea.  She  had  the  guts 
taken  out  of  the  new  Steinway,  scrapped  the  case, 
and  had  another  receptacle  made  purposely  of 
carved  oak.  Not  counting  the  instrument  and  the 
expense  of  the  instrument's  removal  from  one  case 


The  Camomile  179 

to  another,  it  cost  only  £500!  The  beauty  of  it  is 
that,  until  you  actually  open  the  keyboard,  you 
would  never  suspect  there  was  a  piano  in  the  room. 
It  might  easily  be  some  queer  kind  of  bureau.  But 
of  course  every  one  who  has  ever  called  at  the  house 
has  been  told  about  it,  so  that  long  ago  it  became 
the  talk  of  Glasgow.  There  is  nothing  in  the  Lock- 
harts'  house  that  Dr.  Bruce  admires  more. 

May  21.  You  say  you  are  always  shocking  people 
and  on  the  whole  enjoy  it.  I  think  I  am  getting 
over  setting  out  to  shock,  but  I  am  discovering  that 
none  of  that  intentional  shocking  is  to  be  compared 
in  its  effect  with  the  unintentional  kind  which  seems 
to  happen  more  and  more  frequently  with  me.  In- 
stead of  saying  something  deliberately  outrageous, 
as  I  used  to  do,  just  so  that  I  might  amuse  myself 
with  the  look  of  horror  on  their  faces,  I  find  myself 
uttering  something  that  has  become  almost  a  plati- 
tude in  my  own  mind,  and  to  my  astonishment  I 
create  a  really  painful  sensation  compared  with 
which  the  former  business  was  child's  play. 

Only  to-day  something  of  the  kind  happened  in 
the  teachers'  room  at  Miss  Sutherland's.  As  a  rule 
I  spend  no  time  there,  merely  dashing  in  to  leave 
some  music  or  to  put  on  my  hat  and  coat.  But 


180  The  Camomile 

to-day  I  was  lazy  and  sociable  and  stayed,  drinking 
milk  and  eating  biscuits  with  the  others.  There 
were  perhaps  six  of  us  in  the  room  together — Isabel 
Christie,  Mona  Black  (a  very  sentimental  girl  who 
teaches  English),  Miss  Barclay  (a  little,  pale,  clever 
person  who  is  said  to  be  a  swell  at  mathematics), 
Miss  Sutherland,  of  whom  we  are  all  rather  shy,  as 
one  is  of  a  person  who  is  both  brilliant  and  mor- 
bidly timid,  and  a  sewing  mistress  whose  name  I 
forget.  We  were  all  talking  away  about  nothing 
in  particular  when  Miss  Barclay  began  telling  us 
about  her  Cambridge  days.  It  seems  there  was  a 
tutor  at  Newnham  for  whom  every  one  "schwarmed" 
like  mad.  Among  other  things  Miss  Barclay  said 
that  the  girls  used  to  wait  outside  their  bedroom 
doors  at  night,  sitting  on  the  floor  in  their  dressing- 
gowns,  hoping  that  in  passing  on  her  way  along  the 
dark  corridor  the  beloved  one  might  by  chance  brush 
against  them  with  her  skirt! 

/  (breaking  into  the  meditative,  uncritical  silence}. 
How  old  were  these  girls? 

Miss  Barclay.  Oh,  about  nineteen,  twenty — up 
to  twenty-two. 

/  (severely}.  Grown  women!  How  perfectly 
shameful!  At  that  age  they  should  have  been  fall- 
ing in  love  with  Men! 


The  Camomile  fi8i 

What  a  sensation!  You  would  really  have 
thought  I  had  uttered  a  most  improper  sentiment. 
Mona  was  drowned  in  shame,  Miss  Sutherland  vexed 
and  disapproving,  the  sewing  mistress  frankly  scan- 
dalized. The  extraordinary  thing  is  that  not  one 
of  them  had  thought  the  Newnham  story  anything 
but  quite  pleasant  and  as  it  should  be.  Mona,  of 
course,  in  spite  of  all  she  says  about  marriage  be- 
ing the  ideal  for  a  woman — "a  home  of  her  own 
and  little  ones" — is  a  born  Schwarmer,  and  Miss 
Sutherland  a  born  center  of  Schwarmerei.  Still  I 
should  have  thought  some  one  would  have  protested. 
No  one  even  smiled  at  my  outburst,  and  the  only 
one  who  came  to  my  rescue  at  all  was  Isabel  Chris- 
tie, who  had  not  been  listening  particularly  to  the 
conversation.  Isabel  is  so  often  like  that,  lost  in 
puzzled,  not  very  happy  dreams.  She  said  she  quite 
agreed  with  me  and  that  ended  the  episode,  as  of 
course,  when  they  came  to  think  it  over,  the  others 
could  not  exactly  take  up  the  cudgels  against  us. 
They  simply  maintained  a  shocked  appearance  and 
began  talking  of  other  things.  Isabel  and  I  left 
together  immediately  afterwards,  but  parted  at  the 
street  door  as  we  go  different  ways.  I  like  her  very 
much,  though  she  makes  you  feel  that  she  is  miles 
away  from  you  all  the  time.  I  wonder  if  she  is 


1 82  The  Camomile 

in  love?  There  was  some  talk  of  her  being  en- 
gaged to  a  boy  in  Ronald's  office,  but  she  wears  no 
ring,  so  I  daresay  there  was  nothing  in  it. 

May  24.  How  am  I  to  tell  you  what  happened 
this  afternoon  at  the  Library?  I  can  hear  you  say, 
as  you  have  so  often  done  when  I  have  come  with 
a  tale  to  pour  into  your  ears,  "Begin  at  the  begin- 
ning!" Well,  I  shall  do  so,  refraining  from  com- 
ment as  far  as  I  can.  You  must  judge  for  your- 
self of  the  sadness  or  the  shamefulness  of  my  dis- 
covery. 

I  think  I  told  you  once  before  how,  when  one 
o'clock  comes — an  hour  when  I  am  very  seldom  at 
the  Library — Don  John,  if  he  is  there,  will  munch 
some  dry  bread  as  he  stands  reading,  and  later 
in  the  afternoon  will  go  out  for  a  cup  of  tea.  To- 
day, as  it  happened,  I  went  in  at  three  o'clock,  wish- 
ing to  get  an  hour's  reading  in  before  I  met  Madge 
and  Duncan  for  tea  in  town  at  half-past  four.  Don 
John  was  at  the  Library,  and  as  I  had  not  once 
seen  him  since  he  had  written  about  The  Angel,  I 
was  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  a  talk.  For 
the  first  time,  however,  since  our  acquaintance 
began,  he  seemed  in  a  taciturn  mood,  seeing  which 
I  made  myself  scarce  and  took  my  book  to  a  chair 


The  Camomile  183 

at  some  distance  from  him.  I  do  not  mean  that  he 
was  not  as  perfectly  courteous  as  usual.  It  was 
simply  that  he  did  not  smile,  and  from  the 
compression  of  his  lips  and  the  drawn  look  about 
his  jaw  and  cheekbones  I  feared  he  was  still  ill, 
but  in  such  a  way  as  forbade  inquiries  and  sym- 
pathy as  intolerable.  I  know  myself  just  how  it 
feels  to  dread  companionship.  How  it  was  that 
I  did  not  take  the  simple  course  of  leaving  the  place 
at  once  and  so  relieving  him  completely  of  my  pres- 
ence, I  can't  explain.  I  can  only  say  that,  though 
I  felt  unhappy  and  in  the  way  and  found  it  al- 
most impossible  to  fix  my  attention  on  what  I  was 
reading,  something  kept  me  from  going. 

What  was  my  surprise  when  at  about  half-past 
three  he  came  across  to  me  and  asked  in  a  pecu- 
liarly offhand  voice  if  I  would  "be  so  kind"  as  to 
lend  him  sixpence.  At  his  request  I  looked  up,  in- 
voluntarily met  his  eyes,  and  in  that  instant  I  knew 
— that  he  was  starving!  It  was  the  most  dreadful 
experience  of  my  life.  For  what  could  I  do?  The 
expression  on  his  face  made  it  impossible  for  me 
to  initiate  any  remark  or  action.  I  was  compelled 
to  sit  there  helpless  while  I  heard  him  say  that  he 
had  stupidly  come  away  from  his  rooms  that  morn- 
ing without  his  purse,  that  his  tea  never  came  to 


184  The  Camomile 

more  than  fourpence,  that  he  only  wanted  sixpence 
and  would  bring  me  the  change  directly.  His  ac- 
tual words  at  the  time  made  no  impression  what- 
ever upon  me.  I  simply  understood  that  for  some 
reason,  inexpressibly  painful  to  me,  but  vital  to  him 
at  the  moment,  he  was  begging  me  to  behave  as  if 
nothing  unusual  had  happened. 

As  I  handed  him  my  purse  I  was  praying  hard 
that  my  memory  did  not  play  me  false  when  I  cal- 
culated that  there  were  hardly  any  coppers  in  it 
and  no  silver  piece  smaller  than  half  a  crown.  He 
hesitated  a  moment  when  he  saw  this — I  urging 
him  carelessly  to  take  all  he  wanted.  Then  he  picked 
out  one  of  the  half-crowns,  thanked  me  and  moved 
off.  I  did  not  offer  to  go  with  him,  as  he  made 
it  so  clear  that  he  preferred  to  be  alone.  It  was  a 
bright  sort  of  day,  but  with  a  biting  wind  for  the 
time  of  year,  and  I  begged  him  in  the  tone  of  an 
elderly  aunt  to  make  a  good  tea  as  he  looked  chilled 
and  tired.  At  this  he  thanked  me  again  and  asked 
me  to  wait  till  he  should  come  back  with  the  change. 
I  protested  against  that,  for  my  idea  was  to  cut  and 
run,  comforting  myself  with  the  thought  that  any- 
how he  would  have  the  half-crown.  But,  as  he  was 
so  insistent  on  it,  I  agreed  to  wait  where  I  was. 

He  was  away  nearly  three-quarters  of  an  hour,, 


The  Camomile  185 

during  the  whole  of  which  time  I  kept  turning  over 
plans  by  which  I  might  help  him,  without,  however, 
coming  to  any  definite  conclusion.  Then,  just  as 
I  was  beginning  to  wonder  how  I  could  keep  my 
word  to  him  without  failing  Madge  and  Duncan, 
but  determined  to  fail  them  if  it  came  to  a  choice, 
the  door  I  had  been  watching  for  so  long  opened 
and  he  came  in.  He  made  straight  across  the  room 
to  me  with  a  curious  skating  movement  and  a  fixed 
smile  on  his  face,  and  sitting  down  beside  me  he 
said  something  in  Latin  which  I  did  not  under- 
stand. Several  times  over  he  repeated  the  same 
thing  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  sound  of  the  words,  but 
also  as  if  he  was  unaware  that  he  had  already  ut- 
tered them  with  precisely  the  same  intonation.  And 
then  I  realized  that  it  was  not  tea  he  had  been 
drinking. 

I  was  not  the  first  to  see  it  either.  By  this  time 
every  one  in  the  place  was  staring  at  us,  some  re- 
provingly, others  with  the  kind  of  smiling  sympathy 
you  always  find,  in  Glasgow  anyhow,  when  a  man 
gets  drunk.  And  presently  one  of  the  attendants 
began  coming  toward  us. 

Luckily  I  noticed  that  the  man  had  a  kind,  sensi- 
ble face,  and  when  I  told  him  that  my  friend  had 
been  ill  he  did  all  he  could  to  help.  By  this  time 


1 86  The  Camomile 

Don  John  had  laid  his  head  on  his  arms  on  the 
table  we  were  sitting  at,  and  so  did  not  interfere 
when  I  asked  the  man  to  call  a  cab.  When  the 
cab  came,  the  man  and  I  each  took  one  of  his  arms 
and  between  us  coaxed  him  out  of  the  place  and 
downstairs.  It  was  hard  work,  as  we  practically 
had  to  carry  him  all  the  way.  If  he  had  been  a 
heavy  man  we  could  not  have  managed  it,  but 
though  he  is  tallish,  he  is,  as  I  realized  when  we  were 
on  the  stairs,  practically  skin  and  bone.  Also  for- 
tunately I  am  very  strong  in  the  way  of  lifting. 

In  the  cab  he  sat  silent  and  morose  with  his  head 
on  his  hands  and  I  felt  that  he  had  become  more 
or  less  alive  to  the  situation,  but  he  did  not  say 
a  word  and  neither  did  I.  I  stared  out  of  my  win- 
dow, only  turning  once  for  a  moment  to  look  at  him. 
In  that  moment,  though,  I  received  the  most  vivid 
impression  of  his  face  that  I  have  yet  had.  It 
was  as  if  across  his  sharp  temples,  sunken  cheeks 
and  burning,  deep-set  eyes,  I  saw  written  the  ter- 
rible admission  of  failure.  I  knew  then  that  long 
before  I  first  met  him  he  must  have  failed  irretriev- 
ably, must  long  ago  have  sat  in  judgment  on  him- 
self and  accepted  his  own  verdict.  But  I  also  knew 
that  somehow,  though  all  the  incidents  of  his  life 
were  hidden  from  me,  he  had  failed  for  truth's  sake, 


The  Camomile  187 

so  that  my  pity  for  him  was  quite  swept  away  by 
the  even  stronger  feeling  of  reverence.  I  saw  noth- 
ing but  his  indestructible  dignity,  and  acting  on  a 
sudden  impulse,  as  surprising  as  it  was  uncontrolla- 
ble, I  took  one  of  his  hands  and  kissed  it.  Had  I 
been  a  pious  Catholic,  I  might  just  so  have  kissed 
the  hand  of  the  Pope.  But  he  drew  it  away  at  once 
and  shrank  yet  further  back  in  his  corner. 

When  we  reached  his  lodgings  I  paid  the  cabman, 
Don  John  standing  silently  by,  and  I  went  in  and 
upstairs  with  him  as  far  as  the  door  of  his  room, 
where  I  left  him.  He  seemed  by  this  time  able  to 
look  after  himself  and  fully  aware  of  everything. 
When  I  begged  him  very  seriously  and  with  all  my 
might  to  take  the  loan  of  some  money,  he  pushed 
my  purse  away  with  a  stern  and  unhappy  gesture, 
but  still  he  did  not  say  a  word.  It  was  a  great 
relief  to  separate. 

May  26.  This  morning  he  sent  me  a  postal  order 
for  five  shillings  (the  cab  and  the  half-crown)  with 
this  letter: 

"May  25. 
"DEAR  Miss  CARSTAIRS: 

"I  am  more  than  sorry  for  what  happened  yester- 
day through  my  fault,  more  than  grateful  to  you  for 


1 88  The  Camomile 

your  humanity.  In  this  world  a  man  has  to  be 
stronger  than  I  to  give  up  the  drug  of  religion  with- 
out being  forced  into  the  use  of  some  other  narcotic. 
It  may  be  that  for  most  men  religion  is  still  a  nec- 
essary drug.  But  I  do  not  regret.  At  least  as  a 
drunkard  I  harm  no  one  but  myself.  I  try  to  con- 
sole myself  for  yesterday  by  remembering  that  the 
quality  of  mercy  blesseth  not  merely  'him  that 
takes.' 

"I  am  still  waiting  to  hear  from  London  about 
your  story,  but  it  may  well  be  that  the  editor  will 
write  direct  to  you  as  I  gave  him  your  address.  The 
long  delay  may  be,  and  I  sincerely  trust  is,  a  favora- 
ble omen. 

"Your  sincere  and  grateful  friend, 

"JOHN  BARNABY." 

You  will  notice  he  does  not  call  me  Athene,  and 
I  somehow  have  the  feeling  that  I  shall  not  see  him 
for  a  long  time. 

May  28.  You  remember  my  telling  you  a  week 
ago  about  a  conversation  on  the  subject  of  Schwar- 
merei  in  the  teachers'  room  at  Miss  Sutherland's? 
To-day,  Janet  Binnie,  a  teacher  who  was  not  there 
on  that  occasion,  came  up  to  me  with  a  quizzical 
expression  on  her  face  (I  have  always  liked  J.  B., 


The  Camomile  189 

though  she  is  a  bit  of  a  cynic)  and  said,  "What's  this 
Mona  tells  me  about  your  preaching  immorality  to 
the  staff,  Ellen?"  And  when  I  asked  what  on  earth 
she  meant,  she  continued:  "Mona  says  you  are  an 
advocate  of  every  woman  entering  into  immoral  rela- 
tions with  any  man  at  all  as  soon  as  ever  she  comes 
of  age!" 

So  you  see  from  this  how  reputations  are  made 
and  lost  in  Hillhead!  When  I  recounted  the  true 
story,  J.  B.  was  highly  delighted. 

June  2.  Do  you  know  anything  of  a  London 
painter  called  Fender?  I  met  him  at  the  Lovatts' 
house  the  other  day  (he  must,  I  think,  be  fairly 
famous  or  Mrs.  Lovatt  would  not  speak  of  him  as 
"My  friend,  Fender"),  and  thought  him  very  at- 
tractive. Joanna  Bannerman  (no  one  ever  calls  her 
by  her  married  name)  was  there  and  another  girl 
from  the  School  of  Art  whom. I  had  met  before, 
and  a  dark  youth  whose  name  I  didn't  catch.  I 
had  not  seen  Joanna  since  the  "Social"  at  school. 
She  was  quite  friendly  and  nice,  but  there  was  one 
queer  moment.  Annie  Murdoch  (the  other  girl), 
who  is  said  to  be  very  good  at  black  and  white,  asked 
me  to  come  up  to  her  studio  and  sit  to  her.  The  Fen- 
der man  stared  hard  at  me,  nodded  and  said  most 


190  The  Camomile 

emphatically:  "Quite  right.  I  envy  you  your  model." 
Our  friend  Joanna  was  none  too  pleased  and  got 
as  red  as  a  turkey-cock,  but  she  turned  at  once 
and  began  an  animated  conversation  with  the  dark 
youth.  I  should  think  the  dark  youth  is  sweet  on 
her.  How  entertaining  people  are  I 

Later.    That  Fender  man  has  certainly  the  gift  of 
looking  at  a  woman  boldly  yet  without  offense  (ex- 
cept to  the  other  woman).     Poor  wife,  if  he  has 
one!     And  poor  Joanna  Bannerman!     Though  of 
course  I  don't  know  if  there  is  anything  in  this. 
It  was  a  bad  habit,  Ruby,  that  you  and  I  acquired 
in  Frankfort,  of  always  coupling  up  in  an  intrigue 
whatever  man  and  woman  we  saw  together  and  obvi- 
ously interested  in  one  another.    In  Frankfort  I  admit 
that  (with  the  famous  exception  of  "the  innocents," 
Ruby  Marcus  and  Ellen  Carstairs)  any  such  conclu- 
sions were  generally  correct.    But  in  Glasgow  one 
might  just  make  a  mistake.    As  Mrs.  Lockhart  said 
to  me  one  day  when  everybody  had  been  talking 
of  a  love-tragedy  in  the  newspapers,  "Such  things 
do  not  occur  in  our  walk  of  life!"    Could  you  but 
have  seen  her  air  of  conscious,  slightly  regretful  vir- 
tue, as  if  she  had  missed  heaps  of  lovers  by  not 
being  in  another  walk  of  life!     It  was  on  the  tip 


The  Camomile  191 

of  my  tongue  to  retort,  "Not  in  your  walk,  perhaps! " 
She  is  a  most  unattractive  woman,  and  would 
probably  not  even  have  got  a  husband  if  her 
father  had  not  been  a  very  rich  man  indeed. 

June  5.  I  was  sitting  in  my  bedroom  at  the  open 
window  trimming  a  hat,  and  I  could  hear  Aunt 
Harry  on  the  doorstep  (my  room  is  in  front)  send- 
ing Nelly  to  the  beadle  of  our  church  for  her  um- 
brella which  she  left  in  the  church  hall  at  the 
Wednesday  night  prayer  meeting. 

Aunt  Harry.  I  have  noticed,  Nelly,  that  hi  our 
beadle's  nature  Grace  has  not  yet  triumphed  over 
the  Natural  Man. 

Nelly.    No'm. 

Aunt  Harry.  So  when  you  ask  for  the  umbrella 
you  must  be  careful  not  to  irritate  him,  but  ask 
very  politely. 

Netty.    Yes'm. 

Aunt  Harry.  Don't  forget  now.  You  are  so  apt 
to  forget,  Nelly. 

/  (putting  my  head  out  of  the  window  just  above 
them}.  But  where  Grace  abounds,  Nelly,  you  can 
be  as  rude  as  you  like!  Remember  that! 

Aunt  Harry  (looking  up  severely}.  I  won't  have 
profane  speaking  in  my  house  .  .  .  etc.,  etc. 


192  The  Camomile 

I  know  it  was  impudent  of  me  to  speak  like  that 
out  of  the  window,  but  I  shook  with  laughter  over 
their  two  faces  looking  up  to  hear  the  oracle  from 
Heaven  as  it  were,  and  the  whole  incident  cheered 
me  up  wonderfully.  I  sat  trying  on  my  hat  at  the 
glass  afterwards  and  grinned  at  myself  for  about  five 
minutes. 

Last  night  Aunt  Harry  went  to  a  meeting  about 
Jesuits  and  the  "Romeward  tendency,"  and  came 
home  terribly  cut  up  about  my  not  being  there.  The 
speaker  was  "a  man  who  has  written  a  book"  she 
said,  and  yet  I  did  not  bestir  myself  to  go  and  hear 
him.  This  might  not  be  to  my  "utter  and  final 
casting  away,"  but  it  would  certainly  be  to  my 
"eternal  loss"  that  I  had  missed  hearing  such  a  man. 
Cold  good-nights  were  exchanged.  I  do  wish  Dr. 
Sturrock  had  not  recommended  Christians,  instead 
of  using  violence  or  strong  language,  to  "imitate  the 
look  that  Jesus  gave  to  Peter  when  the  cock  crowed." 
Ever  since  that  sermon  Aunt  Harry  has  tried  it 
on  me.  Preachers  should  really  be  more  careful  and 
should  study  human  nature  a  little. 

June  8.  I  have  just  come  home  from  meeting 
Mr.  Gustavus  Thorn,  a  man  I  was  madly  in  love 
with  the  year  after  I  left  school.  You  may  remem- 


The  Camomile  193 

ber  my  telling  you  of  him.  At  the  time  I  was  con- 
vinced that  he  was  the  love  of  my  life.  He  was  a 
lecturer  at  Queen  Margaret  College,  where  I  went 
to  some  classes  the  year  I  left  school.  All 
that  year  I  lived  for  his  class,  and  the  poems 
I  wrote  to  him  (long  since  destroyed)  would  have 
filled  a  volume.  Best  of  all — for  he  was  by  ways 
of  being  a  poet  himself — I  took  my  effusions  to  him 
for  his  criticisms.  Very  likely  he  guessed  they  were 
addressed  to  him,  for  he  used  to  look  much 
embarrassed.  I  believe  in  my  heart  I  wanted  him 
to  guess.  For  quite  a  fortnight  (having  read  what 
an  impression  Cleopatra  had  made  upon  Antony  by 
starving  herself)  I  cut  down  my  breakfast  to  one 
piece  of  thin  dry  toast,  and  I  used  to  hope  he  would 
notice  how  thin  I  was  growing,  though  I  never 
could  see  much  difference  myself.  I  certainly  got 
dark  under  my  eyes  with  sitting  up  writing  these 
poems,  and  the  way  in  which  I  used  to  sprint  after 
a  tram-car  and  leap  on  if  I  saw  him  sitting  on  the 
top,  ought  to  have  reduced  my  weight  more  than 
the  dry  toast.  Not  that  I  was  so  very  fat  to  be- 
gin with,  but  at  seventeen  there's  a  plumpness.  At 
least  with  me  there  was,  and  I  hated  it.  But  how 
hungry  I  used  to  be  by  mid-day!  Will  you  credit 
it,  I  used  to  lie  in  wait  for  the  green  tram-cars  about 


194  The  Camomile 

the  hour  he  was  likely  to  go  into  town,  and  if  I 
saw  his  cadaverous  face  and  black  hair — I  could 
spot  him  miles  away  without  seeming  to  look — I 
would  start  running  before  the  car  came  level  with 
me,  increase  my  pace  as  it  reached  me,  and  then 
leaving  the  pavement  hurl  myself  quite  recklessly 
on  to  it.  I  would  then  climb  the  stair,  and,  gazing 
obliviously  into  space,  pass  his  seat  and  sit  down 
as  nearly  in  front  of  him  as  I  could  get.  This  is 
an  interesting  point.  I  invariably  wanted  him  to  see 
me.  Whereas  when  I  was  in  love  with  Mr.  Hun- 
stable  in  Frankfort  and  used  to  look  out  everywhere 
for  him  and  gaze  up  at  his  windows  at  night,  I 
only  wanted  to  catch  sight  of  him  without  being 
discovered.  I  think  there  must  have  been  more  real 
feeling  there  than  in  the  other.  Yet  what  is  even 
Mr.  Hunstable  to  me  now?  As  I  write  his  name 
a  tender  feeling  comes  over  me,  and  I  think  affec- 
tionately of  his  shabby  coat  and  his  delightful  play- 
ing of  Scarlatti.  Welter  nichts!  I  believe  he  now 
teaches  music  in  Huddersfield  or  some  such  place, 
is  married  and  has  twins.  Good  luck  to  him ! 

Which  brings  me  back  to  my  beloved  lecturer, 
who  is  also  married  now.  I  think  his  marriage  was 
the  deathblow  to  my  passion  for  him,  though  at  the 
time  I  vowed  I  would  continue  to  love  him  wedded 


The  Camomile  195 

or  single  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  But  he  chose 
such  a  dull-looking  person,  the  very  mature  daugh- 
ter of  the  Principal  of  another  university,  which 
fact  gave  him  an  undoubted  lift  in  his  scholastic 
career.  People  of  course  said  the  obvious  thing, 
and  though  I  always  refused  to  admit  it,  they  may 
have  been  right. 

But  to  continue — or  rather  to  begin  again.  Yes- 
terday Mrs.  Lovatt  called  (great  honor)  to  ask 
me  if  I  could  go  with  them  to-night  to  see  Comp- 
ton  hi  The  Rivals.  Luckily  I  was  at  home  and 
Aunt  Harry  in  bed  with  a  cold,  and  I  accepted  at 
once.  No  sooner  had  Mrs.  Lovatt  left  than  Aunt 
Harry,  who  had  heard  us  at  the  front  door,  called 
me  into  her  bedroom  and  I  had  to  tell  her  about 
it.  She  wept  and  I  went  away  to  a  lesson.  How 
absurd  it  is,  as  if  I  were  a  child!  Later  in  the  day 
she  sent  Eliza  for  me,  and  told  me  she  had  been 
"praying  about  it,"  and  was  going  to  write  to  Mrs. 
Lovatt.  She  said  it  was  "the  thin  end  of  the  wedge," 
that  Germany  had  "seared"  my  conscience,  and 
finally  that  she  was  thankful  Father  had  been 
"spared  from  seeing  his  daughter  on  the  downward 
course."  When  it  came,  as  it  has  so  often  done 
lately,  to  her  condemning  my  doings  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  I  am  my  father's  daughter  my  pa- 


196  The  Camomile 

tience  suddenly  went,  and  I  said  all  the  hurtful 
things  I  could  think  of  in  one  long  breath,  which 
was  a  very  fair  number,  for  my  wind  on  such  oc- 
casions is  excellent.  Surely  Father  was  a  mission- 
ary because  he  wanted  to  be,  not  because  of  any- 
thing his  father  was!  Yet  because  Father  chose 
to  be  a  missionary,  Ronald  and  I  must  not  even 
want  to  see  a  play  by  a  classical  writer  like  Sheri- 
dan! That's  to  say  /  mustn't.  Ronald,  because  he 
is  lame,  may  do  what  he  likes.  That  is  one  bless- 
ing. AH  the  same,  of  course,  I  went  with  the 
Lovatts. 

And  I  did  enjoy  myself!  Compton  as  Bob  Acres 
is  all  one  can  wish — I  suppose  you  have  often  seen 
him?  The  women  were  rather  disappointing,  I 
thought.  Also  I  found  the  Lydia  and  Falkland  in- 
cident a  blot  on  the  play.  They  should  both  be 
more  lovable  characters  and  with  a  real  cause  of 
jealousy  to  be  cleared  up  at  the  end.  I  am  sure 
Sheridan  did  not  mean  people  to  laugh  at  some  of 
the  bits  they  do  laugh  at,  and  it  must  surely  be  a 
fault  that  a  comedy  of  the  sort  should  arouse  so 
many  tedious  and  disagreeable  sensations. 

What  I  really  wanted  to  tell  you,  though,  was 
that  Gustavus  Thorn  was  in  the  Lovatts'  party.  It 
was  years  since  I  had  seen  him,  as  he  no  longer 


The  Camomile  197 

lives  in  Glasgow.  When  I  first  realized  who  it 
was  I  was  just  the  least  bit  flustered,  though  I  don't 
think  I  showed  it.  He  certainly  looked  doubtful 
and  taken  aback,  and  actually  glanced  at  Mrs.  Lo- 
vatt  as  if  to  say,  "What  people  you  do  invite  to 
your  house ! "  And  then  he  gave  me  the  tip  of  a  cold, 
flabby  hand,  half  holding  it  back  as  if  he  was  afraid 
I  might  kiss  it!  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
touched  his  hand,  and  it  completely  cured  me  of 
any  lingering  sentiment  I  may  have  had  for  him. 
How  I  despised  him! 

All  evening  I  was  coldly  polite  to  him,  and  I 
could  not  help  feeling  that  in  my  rose-colored 
bridesmaid's  dress  I  showed  up  rather  well  sitting 
next  to  his  wife.  She  is  a  poor  crushed  looking 
creature  with  a  lace  collar  and  a  pink,  shiny  nose 
as  if  she  cried  a  lot.  Most  of  the  evening  I  talked 
to  a  Mr.  Brown,  an  English  assistant  at  the  Uni- 
versity, and  we  got  on  very  well.  We  sat  in  the 
stalls,  and  Madge  and  Duncan  Bruce  were  in  the 
front  row  of  the  dress  circle  at  the  side,  just  above 
us.  In  the  interval  they  came  down  to  speak  to 
me  and  Duncan  said  it  was  a  shame  I  wasn't  sit- 
ting beside  them.  He  looks  very  handsome  in  eve- 
ning dress.  I  found  it  pleasant  being  between  him 
and  Mr.  Brown  and  feeling  that  they  both  wanted 


198  The  Camomile 

to  talk  to  me.  Such  things  do  not  come  about  so 
very  often  in  the  life  I  lead  here.  Yet  just  as  I 
was  realizing  how  enjoyable  it  was,  for  no  reason 
at  all  the  thought  of  Don  John  came  into  my  mind. 
I  felt  suddenly  then  that  the  whole  theater  and 
everybody  in  it  were  as  nothing  to  me  compared 
with — no,  not  with  Don  John  himself,  but  with 
something  I  cannot  express,  which  from  the  first  he 
has  stood  for  in  my  mind,  and  which  has  not  been 
altered  but  rather  strengthened  by  the  discovery  of 
the  other  day.  How  very  strange  and  frightening 
this  feeling  was  I  cannot  express  to  you. 

On  the  way  home  Mrs.  Lovatt  made  us  all  come 
in  for  a  while  to  her  house — all,  that  is  except  the 
Thorns,  who  said  they  couldn't.  And  Madge  and 
Duncan  came  too,  as  they  live  quite  near  in  Wood- 
side  Crescent  and  we  had  come  out  by  the  same 
tram.  It  was  great  fun.  We  had  a  kind  of  picnic 
supper  with  things  fetched  out  of  the  pantry,  as 
nothing  had  been  laid  for  us  and  the  servants  were 
in  bed.  Duncan  and  I  made  a  wonderful  kind  of 
fruit  salad  out  of  odds  and  ends,  and  got  our  fin- 
gers very  sticky  taking  out  date  stones  and  put- 
ting in  almonds  instead.  We  washed  them  together 
afterwards,  and  he  told  me,  so  very  nicely  that  it 
was  not  like  an  ordinary  compliment,  that  he  had 


The  Camomile  199 

never  seen  hands  in  a  woman  that  were  at  once 
so  pretty  and  so  "strong  and  capable"  as  mine. 
I  may  say  he  has  very  nice  hands  himself,  real 
surgeon's  hands  that  look  as  if  they  could  be  trusted 
to  cut  you  up  with  perfect  safety.  I  said  I  was 
sure  I  was  not  the  first  woman  who  had  told  him 
that,  whereupon  he  laughed  just  a  little  self-con- 
sciously and  said,  "Young  woman,  you  know  too 
much."  But  he  declared  he  could  lay  his  hand 
on  his  heart  and  swear  that  he  had  never  made 
the  same  remark  to  any  other  woman  about 
her  hands.  Which,  for  some  reason,  I  quite  be- 
lieved. 

At  supper  the  talk  turned  on  the  different  lec- 
turers who  had  been  at  Queen  Margaret  College, 
and  at  length  Gustavus  Thorn  came  under  review. 
Mrs.  Lovatt,  who  seems  to  have  known  him  pretty 
well  when  he  was  in  Glasgow,  made  a  lot  of  un- 
complimentary remarks  about  him.  She  was  fairly 
witty,  but  I  thought  it  horrid  bad  manners  for  a 
hostess  to  talk  so  of  a  guest  who  had  just  left,  espe- 
cially when  we  were  not  her  intimate  friends,  and 
when  there  was  another  lecturer  present.  In  the 
middle  of  it  she  ran  to  the  bookcase,  pulled  out  a 
volume  of  his  poems  (once  kept  by  me  nightly  be- 
neath my  pillow)  and  bade  us  all  listen  to  the 


2OO  The  Camomile 

"ridiculous  dedication,"  which  she  begged  would  be 
a  warning  to  Mr.  Brown  if  he  ever  brought  out  a 
book  of  verse.  Now  I  practically  knew  this  dedica- 
tion by  heart.  Once  I  had  thought  it  most  lovely 
and  touching,  but  that  was  nearly  four  years  ago, 
and  certainly  as  she  read  bits  aloud  it  sounded  silly 
enough.  She  asked  us  if  we  had  ever  heard  "such 
stuff,"  and  the  others  apparently  had  not.  Duncan 
seemed  particularly  amused  by  it. 

Will  you  believe  it,  I  had  to  make  a  very  great 
effort  to  stand  out,  and  I  only  just  did  it  and  no 
more!  What  a  coward  I  am!  Here  was  a  man 
I  had  at  one  time  at  least  thought  I  was  in  love 
with,  and  he  had  given  me  many  a  thrilling  mo- 
ment. Besides,  I'm  sure  some  of  his  poems  are 
fairly  good.  I  managed,  thank  goodness,  to  pull 
myself  together  before  it  was  too  late.  I  said  I 
didn't  find  the  dedication  specially  funny,  and  tak- 
ing the  book  from  her  I  read  out  the  first  sentence 
as  it  was  intended  to  be  read.  "Perhaps  a  little 
forced,"  I  said,  "but  don't  you  think  it's  easy 
to  forgive  that  when  several  of  the  poems  show 
such  a  sense  of  beauty  as  that  one  about  the  tiger- 
lilies?"  I  know  it  must  have  sounded  terribly 
stilted,  and  I  saw  Duncan  looking  at  me  with  un- 
complimentary surprise,  but  I  felt  better  after  it 


The  Camomile  201 

in  spite  of  this,  in  spite  too  of  Mrs.  Lovatt's  clear 
annoyance. 

I  did  not  have  another  chance  of  talking  to  Dun- 
can, as  he  had  to  take  Madge  home,  and  their  house 
lies  in  the  opposite  direction  from  ours.  Mr. 
Brown  came  away  with  me.  I  did  envy  Miss  Gilles- 
pie,  a  professor's  daughter,  who  was  one  of  the 
party.  When  she  had  said  good-night  she  came  run- 
ning back  to  say:  "Oh,  Mr.  Brown,  mind  you  come 
round  to  our  house  one  evening  soon.  Father  will 
be  delighted  to  see  you."  "Ah,"  thought  I, 
"shouldn't  I  like  to  be  able  to  say  that!"  But  what 
about  Aunt  Harry?  Isn't  it  damnable? 

On  the  way  home  I  talked  to  Mr.  Brown  just 
a  little  about  Aunt  Harry,  and  he  seemed  to  un- 
derstand beautifully.  His  father,  he  said,  had  been 
a  very  strong  Evangelical  so  that  he  had  been 
through  "that  particular  mill."  Certainly  his  re- 
marks were  so  intelligent  that  they  could  have  been 
made  only  by  one  who  knows  exactly  what  it  is 
to  live  in  that  atmosphere.  I  found  myself  think- 
ing it  was  a  pity  he  was  married.  He  has  the  kind 
of  face  I  like,  long  and  rather  sad,  a  bit  lantern- 
jawed,  with  searching  but  good-humored  eyes.  He 
told  me  a  story  about  Herbert  Spencer  visiting  a 
household  where  there  was  family  worship  every 


2O2  The  Camomile 

morning  before  breakfast.  Spencer  had  lived  so 
much  alone  that  all  family  life  was  novel  to  him, 
so  he  asked  his  hostess  if  he  might  come  to  prayers. 
She  said  she  would  be  delighted  to  see  him  there, 
and  next  morning  he  came.  While  they  were  read- 
ing the  Bible  he  sat  listening  attentively,  but  when 
they  all  turned  suddenly  and  plumped  down  on 
their  knees,  he  took  his  stand  on  the  hearth-rug, 
his  back  to  the  fire  and  a  coat-tail  under  either 
arm,  and  watched  them  with  the  greatest  interest 
until  the  prayer  was  done. 

Though  this  is  rather  an  amusing  picture,  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  there  would  have  been  more 
in  the  story  if  Aunt  Harry  had  been  the  mistress  of 
that  house  1 

Sunday,  June  9.  Which  reminds  me  of  Aunt  Har- 
ry's parting  shot  when  she  saw  me  starting,  dressed 
in  my  rose  dress,  for  the  Lovatts'  house — "Well, 
my  child,  I  shall  know  how  to  pray  for  you!" 

She  has  made  me  promise  not  to  repeat  our  con- 
versation in  the  bedroom  to  Ronald.  Poor  Aunt 
Harry,  I  always  love  her  much  best  when  I  am 
disobeying  herl  To  make  up  for  the  things  I  said 
to  her  when  I  lost  patience  that  time,  I  have  been 
sewing  a  white  coat  edged  with  red  for  a  black  man 


The  Camomile  203 

in  Livingstonia.  It  has  taken  the  greater  part  of 
a  day  and  I  have  used  a  good  deal  of  audible  bad 
language  over  it,  but  Aunt  Harry  does  not  seem 
to  mind  that.  She  only  smiles,  says  "Hush,  child  1" 
and  declares  that  it  is  "Ellen's  contribution  to  the 
Great  Work."  She  is  no  hand  at  sewing  herself 
and  always  thinks  my  achievements  in  that  line  very 
wonderful.  I  will  say  this  for  myself,  I  do  know 
how  to  use  a  needle.  I  think  my  black  man  will  be 
pleased  with  his  coat,  as  it  is  both  gay  and  strong. 

June  13.  To-day  I  sat  for  the  third  time  to  Annie 
Murdoch,  the  artist  girl  I  met  at  the  Lovatts'. 
The  first  sitting  was  sheer  waste,  as  she  spent  most 
of  the  hour  in  making  tea  and  talking,  and  when 
at  last  she  did  begin  a  drawing  she  tore  it  up 
without  letting  me  see  it.  At  the  second  sitting 
everything  went  swimmingly  and  she  nearly  fin- 
ished a  head  of  me,  which  I  thought  very  flattering 
— turning  a  little  sideways  and  looking  down.  To- 
day she  put  the  finishing  touches  to  this  one,  and 
did  some  rough  sketches  in  other  positions.  As 
we  were  drinking  tea  afterwards,  Professor  Nilsson, 
who  teaches  design  at  the  School  of  Art,  came  in, 
and  she  showed  him  the  finished  head.  He  looked 
at  it,  then  at  me,  then  at  it  again,  screwed  up  his 


204  The  Camomile 

face  as  if  he  were  sucking  a  lemon,  and  laughed. 
Annie,  looking  dreadfully  vexed,  asked  him  what  was 
wrong  with  it.  "Nothing  wrong,"  he  said  quite 
kindly.  "It  is  all  right.  Quite  a  nice  drawing. 
They  would  hang  it  in  the  Royal  Academy.  But"- 
and  he  glanced  as  if  for  the  first  time  at  me — "though 
a  man  might  possibly  see  Miss  Carstairs  as  a  Ma- 
donna, no  man  would  ever  see  her  as  this  kind  of 
Madonna.  A  man  would  know  she  had  little  meek- 
ness in  her  composition."  As  he  said  this,  smiling 
right  into  her  face,  Annie  was  holding  the  drawing 
in  her  two  hands.  Without  taking  her  eyes  off 
him,  her  lower  lip  trembling  all  the  time  like  any- 
thing, she  began  to  tear  it  across  and  across.  And 
he  did  not  stop  her. 

Feeling  that  I  was  in  the  way,  I  put  on  my  hat 
with  all  speed,  and  sure  enough  when  I  held  out  my 
hand  to  Annie  I  found  she  had  forgotten  all  about 
me.  She  was  quite  nice,  though,  and  made  me 
promise  to  come  again.  I  cannot  decide  whether 
she  is  in  love  with  Professor  Nilsson  or  simply  fear- 
fully keen  on  her  art  and  sensitive  to  his  criticism 
— probably  both.  I'm  sure  I  could  very  easily  be 
in  love  with  him.  He  had  something  of  the  same 
attraction  as  Knopf,  only  gentler  and  less  immoral. 


The  Camomile  205 

Sunday,  June  16.  I  am  always  finding  exquisite 
things  in  unexpected  places.  On  Sunday  nights 
I  sometimes  have  to  wash  up  the  supper  things. 
I  get  out  of  it  if  possible,  for,  in  spite  of  her  fault- 
finding, I  consider  that  Aunt  Harry  spoils  the  serv- 
ants ridiculously,  but  to-night  I  had  to  set  to.  Our 
washing-up  basin  is  the  ordinary  white  enamel  kind 
with  a  dark  blue  rim,  and  as  I  was  filling  it  to- 
night with  hot  water  I  noticed  that  all  round  the 
curved  part,  close  by  the  rim,  the  enamel  had  gone 
into  thousands  of  curving  cracks  as  fine  as  looped 
hairs.  When  I  came  to  look  into  them  more  closely, 
the  beauty  of  these  lines  and  the  design  they  had 
brought  about  made  me  hold  my  breath.  Not  the 
finest  graving  instrument  held  by  the  most  skillful  of 
human  hands  could  have  swept  so  delicately  and 
with  such  inspired  precision,  yet  there  was  no  mo- 
notony. Each  line  was  different,  but  the  scheme 
was  a  perfectly  harmonious  arrangement,  perfectly 
obedient  to  some  hidden  series  of  nature's  laws. 
The  very  color  of  the  lines  was  an  added  charm. 
They  were  a  pale  seaweedy  brown  deepening  to 
black  on  the  white  ground,  and  the  band  of  strong 
blue  at  the  top  held  the  whole  marvelous  circle  of 
fringe  together.  Something  of  the  spider's  web  was 
in  the  pattern,  but,  taken  simply  as  a  pattern,  it 


206  The  Camomile 

was  far  more  complex  and  interesting  than  any  web 
I  ever  saw.  The  whole  fringe  was  not  more  than 
an  inch  and  a  quarter  in  depth.  Had  it  been  exe- 
cuted in  jeweler's  enamel  instead  of  upon  kitchen 
ware,  and  had  the  line  of  blue  been  made  of  sap- 
phires of  no  finer  a  shade,  but  set  there  in  a  row, 
it  would  have  been  regarded  as  a  priceless  treasure. 
But  it  was  in  our  scullery,  and  by  the  merest  chance 
had  it  been  seen  at  all.  In  a  few  weeks'  time  I  sup- 
pose it  will  be  gone  forever.  The  enamel  will  peel 
off  and  the  iron  below  will  show  through  in  mere 
formless  blackness.  I  am  glad  I  saw  it 

June  18.  Why  is  it  that  I  so  seldom  do  the  things 
I  talk  about  beforehand?  Is  it  that  I  talk  because 
in  my  heart  I  know  I  shall  never  carry  out  that 
particular  action?  Or  is  it  that  in  the  mere  speak- 
ing of  it,  so  much  of  the  energy  necessary  to  the 
action  is  dissipated?  This  interests  me  very  much. 
Watching  myself  I  find  if  I  long  greatly  to  talk  of 
a  thing — say  to  Ronald — and  yield  to  that  longing, 
after  having  talked  I  go  off  with  a  feeling  of  ac- 
complishment and  elation,  and  my  determination  to 
carry  the  thing  through  is  by  so  much  the  weaker. 
Then,  even  if  I  get  the  length  of  approaching  the 
action,  I  fed  a  sickly  coming  short  in  myself  and 


The  Camomile  207 

as  likely  as  not,  I  sheer  off  for  good.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  am  afraid  to  let  a  word  out,  and  allow 
that  fear  or  diffidence  to  govern  any  more  com- 
municative feelings,  then  I  am  fairly  sure  of  per- 
forming the  action  by  the  mere  ripening  of  my 
thought  and  desire.  The  question  is  why  do  I  talk 
of  some  things  and  not  of  others?  And  do  I  talk 
in  fact  only  of  the  ones  I  am  not  vitally  interested 
in?  Or  is  it  just  chance  and  mood?  I  watch  other 
people  and  remark  that  without  any  question  of 
hypocrisy  they  hardly  ever  do  as  they  say  they  will, 
or  if  they  do,  at  least  they  drop  the  saying  a  good 
while  before  the  action  comes  about.  When  Ronald 
was  always  talking  of  going  to  America  I  did  not 
feel  half  so  sure  that  he  would  go  as  I  do  now  that 
he  never  mentions  the  word.  Then  Laura  used 
always  to  say  how  wicked  it  was  for  a  girl  to 
marry  from  any  motive  but  love,  and  look  at  her 
now!  Madge,  on  the  other  hand,  has  declared  ever 
since  she  was  at  school  that  she  was  determined  to 
have  a  rich  husband  at  all  costs,  yet  only  a  few 
weeks  ago  I  know  that  a  very  wealthy  middle-aged 
man  proposed  to  her,  and  she  never  for  one  mo- 
ment regarded  the  idea  as  a  possibility.  Of  course 
talk  is  fun  and  all  that,  but  it  is  what  people  do 
without  a  word  said  (or  with  every  word  said  in 


208  The  Camomile 

contradiction)  that  is  so  desperately  interesting. 
There  may  be  some  few  people  in  the  world  who 
speak  and  act  in  perfect  harmony,  but  I  have  not 
met  any  of  these  yet  in  Glasgow  or  in  Frankfort. 

June  19.  I  stayed  away  from  home  all  afternoon 
so  as  to  go  and  see  Twelfth  Night  without  having 
to  tell  Aunt  Harry  beforehand.  I  had  to  borrow 
a  shilling,  and  Madge,  though  she  had  been  there 
the  night  before,  came  with  me  to  the  pit. 
How  Shakespeare  makes  you  love  everybody — vain 
men,  fools,  drunkards  and  knaves,  so  long  as  they 
are  at  all  human  in  their  failings!  Especially  when 
he  makes  them  start  singing,  the  tears  simply  pour 
down  my  face — tears  of  joyous  emotion  at  having 
been  born  into  a  world  where  such  a  poet  was  not 
only  possible  but  true  in  his  presentment  of  life. 
There  were  things  in  this  production  that  offended 
you  if  you  loved  the  play  as  well  as  I  do.  The  farce 
was  overdone  in  places,  so  that  quite  suddenly  you 
could  not  laugh  any  longer,  and  the  scenery  was  too 
gorgeous  except  in  the  garden  scenes.  The  young 
actress — not  long  out — who  played  Viola  was  good 
enough.  She  has  a  particularly  pretty  and  happy 
smile.  The  trouble  was  that  for  one  who  is  sup- 
posed to  be  letting  "concealment  like  a  worm,  etc.," 


The  Camomile  209 

she  smiled  far  too  light-heartedly  and  too  often.  I 
wonder  if  any  of  the  dramatic  critics  will  have  no- 
ticed that?  Ruby,  to  be  a  dramatic  critic! — could 
any  existence  be  more  perfectly  enjoyable? 

Sunday,  June  23.  Madge  Bruce  is  engaged. 
Everything  is  just  as  it  should  be  except  that  the 
man  is  not  particularly  well  off.  But  I'm  sure, 
and  so  is  every  one  else;  that  before  long  he  will 
be.  For  he  is  very  clever  and  all  his  professors  in 
turn  have  prophesied  a  distinguished  career  for  him. 
He  is  a  gynecologist  and  has  been  only  four  or  five 
years  in  practise,  but  with  most  encouraging  results. 
He  is  popular,  handsome  and  good-natured,  the  kind 
of  young  man  who  everywhere  inspires  confidence. 
Madge  adores  him  and  goes  about  with  a  perfectly 
beaming  face.  Every  one  is  pleased — his  people,  her 
people,  and  all  their  friends.  And  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  they  should  not  get  married  without  de- 
lay, as  Dr.  Bruce  can  easily,  and  is  only  too  de- 
lighted to,  help  them  with  setting  up  house.  How 
splendid!  It  really  seems  as  if  Madge  were  one 
of  those  people  for  whom  life  holds  no  problems. 
Yes,  I  envy  her.  And  yet  would  I  change  with  her? 
No,  I  suppose  not,  though  I  cannot  quite  explain 
why. 


2io  The  Camomile 

Later.  Yes,  I  can  though!  My  story,  The 
Angel,  has  been  accepted  and  is  at  this  moment 
in  print!  By  the  last  post  to-night  direct  from 
The  Spokesman  office  in  London,  I  got  the  proof 
to  correct.  Ruby,  my  first  proof!  Can  I  bear  to 
part  with  it?  I  wrote  off  on  the  instant  to  Don 
John  to  tell  him  the  news  and  to  beg  him  either 
to  come  to  my  room  or  to  let  me  come  to  him  as 
I  miss  him  so  fearfully.  Besides,  I  want  his  prac- 
tical advice  about  some  small  changes  in  the  proof. 
Whom  else  have  I  to  talk  to  that  really  knows  about 
writing?  But  since  that  day  at  the  Library  I  have 
neither  seen  him  nor  heard  anything  from  him.  I 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  him  in  reply  to  his  when  he 
sent  me  my  money  back,  but  he  did  not  answer  it. 
Several  times  I  have  walked  down  Endrick  Street, 
and  one  day  I  thought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him 
at  his  window.  If  it  was  he,  however,  he  moved 
away  quickly,  and  I  did  not  like  to  ring  the  bell 
and  ask  for  him  in  case  he  simply  did  not  wish  me 
to.  Now  surely  he  will  let  me  see  him  and  talk. 

June  25.  But,  no,  he  will  not,  and  what  am  I  to 
do?  Here  is  his  letter  in  reply  to  mine  of  two  days 
ago — thank  goodness  he  calls  me  Athene  again,  any- 
how 1 


The  Camomile  211 

"My  DEAR  ATHENE: 

"Indeed  I  congratulate  you  most  heartily.  May 
this  be  the  beginning  of  a  happy  and  successful 
career.  I  feel  sure,  however,  that  you  are  well 
able  to  make  the  necessary  corrections  in  your 
proofs  without  help  from  me.  If  you  take  my  ad- 
vice, you  will  alter  nothing  more  than  any  printer's 
errors  there  may  be.  It  would  be  the  greatest  mis- 
take in  this  particular  sketch  to  start  tinkering  about 
with  it.  I  send  you  my  blessings  for  what  they 
are  worth.  Perhaps  the  following  lines  best  express 
my  feeling  toward  you: 

"A  shipwrecked  sailor  buried  on  this  coast 

Bids  you  set  sail. 

Full  many  a  gallant  bark,  when  we  were  lost, 
Weathered  the  gale." 

"Your  friend, 

"JOHN  BARNABY." 

June  26.  On  the  top  of  the  car  this  afternoon 
whom  should  I  meet  but  Miss  Rory,  my  old  music 
teacher,  with  her  husband.  She  was  just  through 
from  Edinburgh,  where  she  lives  now,  for  the  day, 
and  looked  very  elegant  and  interesting  all  in  black. 
She  spoke  to  me  in  the  old,  sweetly  playful  way  as 
if  I  were  fourteen  again,  and  though  I  have  long 


212  The  Camomile 

since  got  over  that  infatuation,  and  indeed,  as  you 
know,  owe  her  a  grudge  at  times  for  so  having  over- 
praised my  talent  and  sent  me  to  Germany  with 
such  high  hopes,  I  must,  I  suppose,  have  slipped 
back  for  the  moment  in  a  sort  of  mechanical  way 
into  the  old  subjugation.  Anyhow,  when  I  left  them 
I  remembered  that  I  had  not  addressed  a  word  all 
the  time  to  her  husband,  whom  I  then  met  for  the 
first  time.  I  did  nothing  but  talk  to  and  look  at 
her,  so  that  I  daresay  she  will  be  thinking  she  still 
holds  sway  over  me.  This  would  be  an  annoying 
thought  if  there  were  more  substance  in  it.  Even  as 
things  are,  it  is  curious  to  notice  for  what  a  long 
time  after  an  influence  has  ceased  to  exist,  its  former 
force  will  appear  in  small  but  living  actions.  I 
remember  so  well  the  day  Miss  Rory  told  me  she 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  an  Edinburgh  archi- 
tect. She  laughed  like  anything  at  my  look  of 
blankness  followed  by  acute  but  controlled  distress. 
And  how  I  cried  as  soon  as  I  got  away  from  my 
lesson!  I  honestly  hated  the  sacrilegious  brute  of 
a  man  who  was  to  marry  her! 

Not  long  after  this  meeting  to-day,  I  was  kid- 
napped in  Buchanan  Street  by  Mrs.  Bruce,  who 
insisted  on  my  walking  her  way  while  she  talked 
with  the  greatest  emphasis  and  solemn  relish  about 


The  Camomile  213 

Madge's  engagement.  She  kept  saying,  "Now  I 
can  say  this  to  you,  Ellen,"  as  if  she  regarded  me 
as  a  specially  reliable,  discreet  sort  of  person,  or 
almost  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  family.  It  gave  me 
a  queer,  not  wholly  pleasant  sensation.  It  is  true 
I  have  been  a  great  deal  at  their  house  lately,  and  I 
am  very  fond  of  Madge,  and  very  happy  about  her. 
That  must  be  it. 

June  27.  The  schools  are  all  breaking  up  this 
week,  but  as  yet  we  have  not  decided  anything 
about  holidays.  The  only  thing  that  seems  to  be 
fixed  irrevocably  is  that  Ronald  will  go  to  New 
York  in  September. 

Later.  Lately  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal 
about  you,  Ruby.  Though  you  do  not  say  much 
in  your  letters,  I  feel  that  things  are  difficult  again 
just  now  and  that  you  hardly  know  which  way 
to  turn.  How  I  wish  we  could  meet  and  talk.  Ron- 
ald and  I  had  a  chat  about  holidays  to-night.  He 
wants  to  spend  July  yachting  with  Mungo  in  the 
West  Highlands,  and  then  to  go  somewhere  with 
Aunt  Harry  and  me  for  August.  Now  I  think  with  a 
little  persuasion  from  me,  Aunt  Harry  would  go  off 
by  herself  for  the  greater  part  of  July  to  her  be- 


214  The  Camomile 

loved  Keswick  Convention,  which  is  a  combination 
of  Evangelical  meetings  and  coaching  in  the  Lake 
District.  In  that  case  could  you  not  come  north, 
and  you  and  I  should  stay  in  rooms  together  at  some 
place  where  Mungo  and  Ronald  could  visit  us  be- 
tween their  cruises?  Wouldn't  that  be  splendid?  I 
do  hope  you  will  be  able  to  come.  The  Bruces  have 
asked  me  to  spend  the  month  with  them  at  Aber- 
foyle,  but  I  don't  think  I  want  to  go.  Let  me  hear 
from  you  soon. 

Later.  Just  as  I  was  going  to  post  this  batch  of 
journal  off,  your  letter  arrived.  Fancy  my  forget- 
ting that  you  have  no  holidays  till  August — what  a 
wretched  English  custom!  But  it  is  still  worse  to 
think  that  all  August  you  are  compelled  to  be  in 
such  a  crowded  seaside  place  with  your  family. 
About  my  spending  July  in  London  with  you — 
that  is  indeed  a  suggestion  fraught  with  glorious 
possibilities,  as  they  say.  How  to  work  Aunt  Harry 
round  to  it  is  the  only  difficulty.  But  I  shall  see 
what  can  be  done,  you  may  count  on  that,  and  I'm 
sure  Ronald  will  help  me. 

I  am  thrilled  by  your  idea  of  leaving  home  in  the 
autumn  and  living  in  rooms  of  your  own.  You 
ask  could  I  possibly  join  you.  Ah,  if  I  could! 


The  Camomile  215 

July  1.  Ruby,  I  am  coining  to  you  for  almost 
the  whole  of  July!  It  is  all  arranged.  I  can  start 
on  Wednesday.  By  then  I  shall  have  seen  the 
others  off  and  put  things  straight  at  home.  It  was 
Ronald  that  managed  it,  bless  him!  Madge  Bruce 
is  sulking  because  I  am  not  going  to  Aberfoyle,  but 
in  her  present  state  of  radiance  I  really  don't  see 
that  she  need  be  considered.  Duncan  says  I  am 
quite  right  to  choose  London  when  I  have  the  chance, 
and  he  thinks  he  may  take  a  run  up  while  I  am 
there.  In  that  case  you  will  meet  him.  I  don't 
think  you  will  be  able  to  help  liking  him.  I  have 
written  to  Don  John  and  to  Miss  Hepburn  telling 
them  that  I  am  going,  and  asking  them  both  to 
supper  to-morrow  night  when  I  shall  be  alone.  But 
I  don't  suppose  either  of  them  will  come. 

July  2.  I  saw  Ronald  off  this  morning  and  Aunt 
Harry  in  the  afternoon.  To-night  was  a  wild  fiasco. 
I  cannot  even  begin  to  tell  you  about  it  till  I  see  you. 
To  my  great  surprise  Don  John  turned  up,  so  did 
Miss  Hepburn,  and  so  did  Miss  McRaith!  I  don't 
know  when  I  spent  a  more  distracted  and  miserable 
evening.  Each  of  my  guests  was  highly  suspicious 
of  the  other.  Don  John  had  the  good  sense  to  leave 
early,  and  the  only  satisfactory  moments  of  the 


216  The  Camomile 

evening  were  those  I  spent  saying  good-night  to  him 
on  the  doorstep.  He  has  given  me  two  literary  in- 
troductions in  London,  and  says  I  ought  also  to  call 
on  the  editor  of  The  Spokesman.  I  shall  do  all  he 
tells  me.  When  I  went  back  to  the  drawing-room 
I  found  Miss  Hepburn  and  Miss  McRaith  having 
a  really  venomous  argument  about  the  Holy  Ghost. 
It  took  me  all  my  time  to  separate  them  and  per- 
suade Miss  Hepburn  to  go  home,  as  I  had  all  my 
packing  still  to  do. 

July  3.  Miss  McRaith  left  early,  thank  Heaven, 
and  now  everything  is  ready.  I  do  hope  the  weather 
will  be  fine  in  London.  I  have  a  new  white  dress 
that  I  am  dying  to  wear,  but  here  it  is  pouring  with 
rain.  How  free  and  happy  I  feel  at  this  moment! 
I  only  pray  that  I  shall  not  meet  any  one  I  know 
in  the  train.  For  then  I  might  have  to  talk  instead 
of  sitting  and  thinking  by  myself  all  the  time.  Do 
you  know  that  desperate  longing  just  to  be  alone 
and  to  think?  Especially  when  I  start  on  a  journey 
among  strangers  I  always  feel  deeply  and  quietly 
thrilled  as  if  I  were  carrying  some  hidden  treasure 
in  my  breast.  Slowly,  carefully,  with  a  calm  face 
I  draw  it  from  its  hiding-place  and  hold  it,  as  it 
were,  between  my  hands  and  upon  my  knees,  not 


The  Camomile  217 

letting  my  eyes  rest  upon  it  at  first,  just  wonder- 
ing what  it  will  appear  like  this  time,  what  strange 
and  wonderful  changes  I  shall  find  since  I  last 
looked  at  it.  Then  I  give  one  glance  at  it  and  look 
away  again,  then  another  glance,  then  I  turn  my 
eyes  full  on  it  and  gaze  and  gaze.  What  is  this 
treasure?  Is  it  my  soul?  My  experience?  Life? 
I  don't  know.  I  only  know  it  is  a  treasure,  and  in 
being  alone  with  it  I  am  reconciled  to  the  whole 
world,  which  is  the  highest  form  of  happiness  I 
know. 

I  have  just  time  to  say  good-by  to  Eliza  (Nelly 
has  gone  home  for  a  holiday)  before  the  cab  comes. 
No  more  journal  to  Ruby  now  for  a  month  at  least! 

I  forgot  to  say  I  have  had  a  check  for  three 
guineas  from  The  Spokesman!  We  shall  spend  it 
together  in  London! 


/// — Fantasia  on  an  Old  Theme 

25  BLANDFORD  TERRACE,  GLASGOW, 

August  3. 
MY  DEAREST  RUBY: 

Duncan  and  I  had  a  very  happy  journey  and 
got  safe  home  three  nights  ago.  I  should  have  writ- 
ten at  once,  but  since  our  arrival  at  the  station 
where,  to  our  perfect  surprise  we  were  met  and 
treated  to  a  regular  reception  by  about  a  dozen 
friends,  I  have  been  in  a  state  of  mental  and  emo- 
tional distraction  which  is  really  painful.  Some- 
how I  never  realized  there  would  be  this  aspect  to 
our  engagement.  In  London  there  were  only  the 
two  of  us,  so  cozily  lost  among  all  those  millions  of 
people  to  whom  our  feelings  and  doings  were  no 
concern.  There  was  no  one  but  your  dear  self  to 
bother  about  us,  and  you  were  so  full  of  under- 
standing and  every  true  sort  of  kindness  (all  the 
more  appreciated  by  me  for  the  knowledge  that  you 
were  yourself  struggling  against  hard  circumstances 
and  depression)  that  it  was  always  a  joy  to  both 
of  us  to  be  with  you.  Any  constraint  between  you 

2x9 


22O  The  Camomile 

and  Duncan  would  have  been  a  grief  to  me.  But 
you  do  truly  like  him,  don't  you,  Ruby?  I  mean 
you  were  not,  were  you,  being  so  nice  to  him  merely 
out  of  friendship  toward  me?  I  know  anyhow  that 
Duncan  likes  and  admires  you  very  much  indeed— 
as  well  he  may,  being  a  man  of  sense. 

I  cannot  write  more  now.  Again  and  again  I 
thank  you  for  all  you  did  for  me  in  London,  for 
the  wonderful  time  you  made  of  it  for  me.  I  only 
wish  Duncan  and  I  were  still  there  and  need  not 
have  come  back  to  Glasgow  till  we  were  married. 

Ever  with  love, 

ELLEN. 

Later.  Sunday,  August  4.  Shall  I  ever  be  able 
to  write  any  more  in  my  journal  to  you?  I  don't 
think  so.  Now  that  Duncan  and  I  are  engaged,  the 
poor  thing's  back  is  broken  for  good.  Now  that 
my  thoughts  are  centered  round  him,  I  cannot  set 
down  a  record  of  them  for  any  one  else  to  read, 
not  even  my  dearest  friend.  Yet  the  impulse  to 
write  in  my  journal  has  not  left  me.  Far  from  it. 
I  never  felt  the  need  of  it  more  than  at  this  mo- 
ment, at  the  end  of  this  whirling  month  of  silence, 
crowded  impressions  and  sensations.  After  all,  why 
should  my  getting  engaged  make  me  less  interested 


The  Camomile  221 

in  the  things  around  and  within  me;  or  less  anxious 
to  get  my  thoughts  clear  by  setting  them  down? 
For  me  there  is  no  clearness  of  thought  apart  from 
writing.  I  doubt  if  there  is  even  full  observation 
without  writing.  Because  I  hardly  ever  observe 
consciously  at  the  time.  I  feel  at  the  time.  But  it 
is  not  until  I  come  to  describe  an  incident  on  paper 
that  the  significant  detail  is  made  manifest  to  me. 
It  is  as  if  I  only  observed  in  retrospect  and  when 
the  mist  of  emotion  has  cleared  off.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  different  when  I  am  married.  Very  likely 
it  will  be.  I  feel  that  strongly.  For  one  thing 
marriage  must  surely  be  of  itself  a  clarifying  and 
a  liberating  process.  With  such  a  channel  for  one's 
emotions  one  must  be  left  beautifully  free  for  de- 
tached observation,  and  with  such  an  incomparable 
intimacy  in  one's  life,  what  need  can  there  be  for 
the  intimacy  of  a  journal?  In  a  married  life  of  even 
reasonable  happiness  I  should  imagine  that  such  a 
thing  would  be  an  impertinence  if  not  a  sheer  im- 
possibility. 

But  I  am  not  yet  married.  Nor  shall  I  be,  ac- 
cording to  Duncan's  inscrutable  plans,  till  Christ- 
mas. And  if  I  were  to  conclude  that  observation 
and  clearness  were  dangers  to  my  happiness,  would 
you  not  say  there  was  something  wrong  with  my  en- 


222  The  Camomile 

gagement?  Mind,  I  am  not  certain  about  this  last. 
I  am  simply  asking  the  question — to  myself  as  much 
as  to  you.  Possibly  at  such  a  time  a  rightly  con- 
stituted woman  would  either  not  want  to  think 
at  all,  or  would  not  feel  the  desirability  of  clear 
thinking.  But  even  a  rightly  constituted  woman 
could  not,  I  think,  assert  that  an  engagement  is  of 
itself  a  clarifying  experience. 

I  do,  however,  want  to  be  clear  within  myself. 
Also  I  will  confess  that  there  is  a  second  and  per- 
haps even  stronger,  certainly  a  more  passionate, 
motive  in  me  which  has  grown  to  full  consciousness 
since  that  Sunday  evening  three  weeks  ago  at  your 
house  when  you  gave  me  all  my  entries  of  the  past 
year  to  read  over.  How  much  I  had  already  for- 
gotten! How  interesting  I  found  it  to  be  reminded! 
As  I  read  I  realized  that  twenty  or  forty  years  hence 
our  burning  present  will  be  no  more  unless  in  some 
way  we  manage  to  record  it.  If  we  do  record  it,  no 
matter  with  what  intimacy  and  daring  at  the  mo- 
ment, it  will  then  seem  to  us  as  remote  as  some 
Greek  classic.  As  remote,  but  also  as  fresh,  and 
possibly  far  more  interesting  to  ourselves. 

For  think  a  moment!  It  is  all  very  well  to  say 
that  nothing  dies,  that  every  word,  action,  experi- 
ence of  a  person's  early  life  is  stored  up  indestructi- 


The  Camomile  223 

bly  in  some  kind  of  an  essence  which  is  given  out 
long  after  in  the  shape  of  character:  that  is  to  say, 
in  a  new,  unrecognizable  set  of  words,  gestures,  ac- 
tions and  so  forth.  But  is  not  this  very  transmuta- 
tion a  sort  of  death?  I  cannot  understand  the  com- 
fort that  people  like  your  mother  find  in  that  idea 
of  the  transmigration  of  souk.  If  you  are  unable 
to  remember  your  former  life,  and  will  not  in  your 
next  life  remember  this,  where  is  the  difference  be- 
tween such  a  process  and  common  death?  It  is  sat- 
isfactory of  course  to  know,  as  we  all  do  without 
any  exercise  either  of  faith  or  of  fantasy,  that  our 
bodies,  when  they  rot,  will  go  toward  the  living 
growth  of  plants,  and  thence  will  help  to  nourish 
living  men  and  beasts.  But  where  in  all  this  is 
there  any  personal  survival?  And  to  the  individual 
does  anything  else  count  as  survival?  If  when 
I  reach  fifty  I  have  never  borne  a  child,  never 
even  had  my  youthful  portrait  painted,  never, 
above  all,  created,  or  had  created  for  me  something 
definitely  individual,  something  unmistakably  in  my 
image  yet  separate  from  myself — that  is  to  say,  some 
personal  record  or  some  impersonal  work  of  art 
which  shall  yet  enshrine  my  unique  personality,  what 
is  there  left  of  my  youth  but  a  few  incommunicable 
and  fading  memories?  Dare  any  one,  looking  at 


224  The  Camomile 

the  face  of  a  very  old  and  recordless  man,  deny  that 
his  youth  is  almost  completely  dead?  His  bright 
and  glancing  eyes,  the  gloss  upon  his  hair,  his  sweet 
ways  as  a  child,  where  are  they  now?  His  mother, 
who  might  at  least  have  told  you  of  them,  is  dead 
these  many  years;  and  stare  into  his  own  counte- 
nance as  earnestly  and  as  long  as  you  please,  you 
will  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  them  there.  He  him- 
self has  forgotten  them.  Ask  him  and  see. 

Therefore  I  love  and  treasure  every  kind  of  hu- 
man record.  No  matter  whether  it  be  sad  or  gay, 
full  of  imagination  or  barren  of  invention,  so  long 
only  as  it  bear  the  marks  of  truth  and  of  the  indi- 
vidual, I  am  grateful  for  it  to  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  Just  fancy,  if  no  one  were  to  cast  such 
human  bread  upon  the  awful  waters  of  life,  how 
insupportable  would  be  existence!  And  as  I  myself 
am  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  human  being,  why 
should  I  not  take  heart  and  add  my  crumb  to  the 
rest? 

Your  friend, 

E.  C. 

P.  S.  After  all  we  are  staying  in  Glasgow  for 
August.  With  Ronald  going  early  in  September 
there  are  lots  of  things  to  be  seen  to  in  town  for  him. 
The  Bruces  are  still  at  Aberfoyle,  but  their  town 


The  Camomile  225 

house  is  open,  as  Dr.  B.  can  only  leave  for  week- 
ends. I  expect  Duncan  and  I  shall  do  some  coming 
and  going. 

Ellen  s  Journal 

Sunday,  August  4.  Two  whole  weeks  since  I 
promised  to  marry  Duncan!  How  lovely  our 
first  ten  days  were!  London — no  problems  or 
ordered  thoughts,  not  a  single  consideration  outside 
our  precious  selves  and  our  happiness.  But  these 
last  four  days  in  Glasgow  have  been  full  of  ques- 
tions, distractions,  quite  irrelevant  excitements.  I 
must  adjust  my  altered  life  to  fit  the  old  framework. 
I  resent  this  frightfully.  That  I  should  have  to  do 
so,  and  for  so  long,  fills  me  with  rebellious  thoughts. 

Only  this  morning  Duncan  and  I  nearly  quarreled 
over  it.  At  least  he  would  not  guess  that  we  nearly 
quarreled,  because  he  was  unconscious  of  the  sud- 
den, terrifying  seethe  of  anger  against  him  that  rose 
in  me.  I  loved  him  all  the  more  for  it  afterwards 
when  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  we  lost  count  of 
time,  kissing  and  talking  together.  But  there  it 
was,  and  he  never  for  one  moment  suspected  it. 
How  horribly  easy  it  is  to  deceive  a  man!  One 
thing  anyhow  is  clear  to  me  from  our  talk.  Dun- 
can, deeply  in  love  with  me  as  I  believe  he  is,  really 


226  The  Camomile 

enjoys  being  engaged,  even  in  Glasgow.  He  does 
not  find  it  harrowing  and  upsetting,  as  I  do,  or  he 
would  not  dream  of  our  waiting  till  Christmas  to 
be  married.  Why  should  we  wait?  He  is  not  the 
man  to  have  asked  me  unless  his  own  mind  was  fully 
made  up.  As  for  me,  in  the  very  moment  I  said 
Yes  I  shed  my  old  life  like  a  snake's  skin  and  was 
ready  to  go  forward  into  the  new  life  with  him  as 
soon  as  he  said  the  word.  Yet  it  seems  he  thinks 
we  must  both  go  on  marking  time  in  our  old  sur- 
roundings for  nearly  five  months?  Why?  It  is  not 
as  if  he  were  too  poor  to  marry  at  once.  He  will 
be  no  better  off  by  Christmas — much  worse  off  in- 
deed, judging  by  the  lavish  way  he  is  spending  his 
money  at  present,  mainly  on  me!  Is  it  for  the 
sake  of  other  people — so  that,  as  he  said  this  morn- 
ing, "they  may  have  time  to  get  used  to  the  idea"? 
I  should  have  thought  that  seeing  no  one  up  to  now 
has  uttered  a  word  except  in  congratulation,  this 
was  a  case  where  we  had  only  ourselves  to  consider. 
But  suppose  it  is,  for  some  reason  I  can't  fathom, 
advisable.  Then  should  I  not  be  better  to  go  on 
with  my  teaching  as  before  for  the  coming  term? 
For  one  thing  I  shall  want  to  help  Aunt  Harry  all 
I  can  with  the  money  for  my  trousseau.  For  an- 
other, with  Ronald  gone  on  the  first  of  September 


The  Camomile  227 

and  existence  a  series  of  rapturous  meetings  with 
Duncan  and  sickening  partings  from  him,  would  not 
at  least  a  certain  amount  of  compulsory  work  help 
to  steady  me?  I  know  I  shall  not  be  able  to  write. 
That  must  be  laid  aside  for  the  present,  perhaps 
for  a  long  time — possibly  for  always.  But  teaching 
is  different.  Teaching  would,  I  feel,  act  as  a 
sedative  and  keep  my  nerves  from  going  to  pieces. 
Yet  Duncan  wants  me  to  give  up  my  pupils  and 
Miss  Sutherland's  School  all  at  once.  When  I  ob- 
jected he  said,  "Am  I  not  enough  for  you  then?" 
As  if  the  trouble  were  not  that  he  was  far  too  much 
for  me! 

August  7.  Called  at  Endrick  Street  to  try  and 
see  Don  John,  but  he  wasn't  there  nor  at  the  Mitch- 
ell. Hope  this  means  that  he  is  busy  with  coaching, 
but  didn't  like  to  ask  his  landlady.  She  always  peers 
suspiciously  at  me  with  little  squinting  black  eyes. 
D.  J.  does  not  know  yet  about  Duncan  and  me. 
Came  straight  home  and  wrote  a  short  note  telling 
him  the  bare  facts.  Asked  him  to  come  and  meet 
Duncan  at  my  Room.  Duncan  is  quite  keen  to 
meet  him,  but  does  not,  I  think,  quite  realize  him. 
"Must  be  a  queer  old  cove,"  he  says.  I  have  not 
told  him  about  D.  J.  being  drunk. 


228  The  Camomile 

ABERFOYLE. 

Sunday,  August  11.  Duncan  is  wonderful.  He 
says  he  wants  me  to  write.  He  merely  does  not  want 
me  to  fall  into  "the  usual  feminine  mistake  of  over- 
doing things."  The  trouble  is  I'm  afraid  it  is  my 
nature  so  to  overdo! 

We  came  down  (he  and  I)  yesterday  to  spend 
Sunday  with  his  family  here.  It  is  the  first  time 
I  have  seen  Mrs.  Bruce  or  Madge  since  getting 
back.  Madge,  besides  being  so  happy  about  her 
own  affairs,  is  bubbling  with  joy  over  Duncan  and 
me.  She  says  that  for  years  it  has  been  the  dearest 
wish  of  her  life,  and  I  feel  she  is  speaking  the  truth. 
Dear  old  Madge!  His  parents  are  less  demonstrably 
pleased — Mrs.  B.  just  a  little  fluttery  and  anxious 
lest  I  should  fail  the  least  bit  to  appreciate  the  honor 
done  to  me  and  all  her  boy's  wondrous  qualities. 
Honestly  I  don't  think  I  do  fail.  I  can't,  it  is  true, 
lift  my  hands  in  admiration  of  qualities  he  hasn't 
got,  even  to  please  her — e.g.,  I  cannot  agree  that  his 
water-colors  of  Indian  native  life  are  artistic  mas- 
terpieces, and  though  Duncan  says  I  am  right  there, 
I  can  see  he  is  just  the  least  bit  vexed  that  I  don't 
see  them  as  better  than  they  are.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  see  lovely  things  in  him  to  which  I  think 
his  mother  is  blind — e.g.,  his  adorable,  terrifically 


The  Camomile  229 

masculine  simplicity,  and  the  strength  that  goes 
with  it,  making  hay  of  all  my  subtleties  and  twists. 
An  humiliating  confession,  though — this  tremendous, 
always  superlative  admiration  of  his  home  circle  does 
continue  to  arouse  a  definite  hostility  in  me  even 
now  that  we  are  engaged.  I  thought  this  would  go, 
but  I  still  find  myself  looking  at  him  now  and  then 
with  alien  eyes.  When  I  see  him  as  one  of  his  fam- 
ily, a  little  wave  comes  over  me  of  an  old,  dread- 
fully familiar  longing — to  give  them  all  the  slip. 
To  fly  away  far  and  alone.  Then  Duncan  and  I 
go  for  a  walk  and  are  so  pleased  with  one  another 
that  we  hardly  know  what  to  do  with  ourselves. 

August  12.  I  lay  awake  for  hours  last  night,  and 
little  bright,  as  it  were,  jeweled  pictures  were  im- 
printed, each  only  for  a  few  instants,  on  the  insides 
of  my  closed  eyelids.  It  is  a  queer,  exciting  game 
this.  I  discovered  it  when  I  was  about  fifteen,  and 
at  one  time  used  so  to  indulge  myself  in  it  that  I 
would  lie  sleepless  for  nights  on  end  and  go  about 
by  day  with  dark  rings  round  my  eyes.  It  is  not 
myself — consciously  at  least — that  chooses  or  sum- 
mons the  pictures.  I  merely  will  that  the  game 
shall  begin,  after  which  I  take  the  place  of  an 
eager  spectator.  Once  started,  the  scenes  keep  swim- 


230  The  Camomile 

ming  up  as  if  by  the  decision  of  some  hidden  show- 
man. Each  is  a  perfect  surprise  to  me,  not  only 
in  subject  but  hi  the  arrangement  of  figures  and  ob- 
jects, yet  each  is  so  clear  and  shining  and  so  full 
of  faithful  detail  that  I  marvel  at  its  fidelity.  They 
are  true  to  life  as  art  is  true,  but  like  the  best  art 
they  are  purged  of  all  irrelevancies,  and  the  primary 
colors  stand  out  purely.  If  I  make  any  conscious 
effort  of  memory  all  is  spoiled  at  once.  As  it  is, 
I  have  scarcely  time  to  examine  one  picture  closely 
before  it  vanishes,  leaving  but  a  few  whirling  lines 
and  stars  until  the  next  appears.  None  can  be  ex- 
actly repeated.  One  of  the  most  vivid  last  night 
was  of  that  evening  hi  London  when  Duncan  and 
I  got  engaged.  After  the  hot  day,  the  hot  sum- 
mer night  with  short  heavy  rain  showers  .  .  .  the 
big  raindrops  coming  straight  down  through  the 
darkness  like  splinters  of  crystal  .  .  .  after  the 
shower  the  smell  of  water,  of  watered  dust,  of  thirsty 
trees  in  the  Bloomsbury  Square  ...  to  me  forever 
the  smell  of  London.  How  I  longed,  as  the  trees 
for  the  rain,  for  Duncan  to  kiss  me  and  tell  me  he 
loved  me!  And  when  he  did,  I  felt  so  very  happy, 
as  if  I  had  never  really  been  unhappy  in  my  life 
before  and  never  would  again,  as  if  happiness  was 
the  basis  and  the  whole  fabric  of  existence.  There 


The  Camomile  231 

can  be  nothing  so  surprising  and  strange  in  a 
woman's  life  (unless  perhaps  the  birth  of  her  first 
child)  as  the  first  touch  of  a  lover's  lips.  Nothing 
in  one's  earlier  life  prepares  one  for  that.  My 
father,  Ronald,  various  boy  cousins  had  kissed  me 
often  enough.  But  I  could  never  have  foreseen  this 
absolutely  new,  terrifyingly  lovely  experience  .  .  . 
the  energy,  the  flame,  the  savage  force  hi  men.  .  .  . 

GLASGOW. 

August  13.  We  came  back  together  early  yester- 
day morning.  It  was  calm  and  misty — autumnal.  I 
loved  the  drive  to  the  station,  though  we  had  not 
much  to  say  to  one  another.  I  felt  neither  happy 
nor  unhappy,  almost  in  a  kind  of  coma.  Duncan 
looked  sleepy  and  very  handsome.  I  wondered 
vaguely  what  he  was  thinking  of  ...  he  certainly 
has  that  look  of  experience  which  I  so  much  admire, 
especially  in  a  man.  I  love  the  deep  lines  round 
his  mouth.  Yet  when  I  ask  him  what  he  is  think- 
ing about,  unless  it  is  of  me  it  is  of  nothing  very 
special.  And  even  of  me  he  seems  to  think  "just 
generally,"  as  he  calls  it.  Except  when  he  is  actu- 
ally caressing  me,  I  have  hardly  any  inkling  of  his 
feeling  or  thoughts.  Is  it  always  so  with  men  and 
women? 


232  The  Camomile 

In  the  train  we  had  a  carriage  to  ourselves,  and 
something  in  the  papers  started  us  off  on  a  stupid 
discussion  about  suicide.  From  that  we  got  on  to 
the  subject  of  foreigners,  whom  D.  seems  to  dislike 
almost  as  much  as  Madge  does.  I  listen  with  def- 
erence to  him  as,  unlike  her,  he  has  lived  abroad 
and  has  met  all  kinds  of  nationalities  of  men.  But 
I  get  unhappy  and  cross  when  he  divides  them  all 
into  Dagos,  Dutchmen  and  Niggers.  Boris  Fabian 
he  would  call  a  Dutchman!  When  I  said  I  liked 
foreigners  and  felt  at  home  with  them,  he  simply 
laughed  at  me.  When  I  grew  hot  and  said  I  felt 
him  and  his  family  more  foreign  to  me — more  dif- 
ficult to  understand  and  be  myself  with — than  a 
person  like  Boris,  he  laughed  still  more.  He  refuses 
to  take  such  things  seriously.  Is  he  right?  I 
cannot  be  too  sure  that  he  is  wrong.  He  has  an 
enormous  advantage  over  me  in  experience,  and  I 
should  be  a  fool  if  I  were  to  run  counter  to  that 
from  merely  sentimental  feelings.  Besides,  I  want 
him  to  be  right.  I  am  getting  to  know  the  peculiar, 
very  physical  joy  of  giving  way  to  his  compulsion 
in  certain  matters.  Yet  I  distrust  this,  as  it  leaves 
me  feeling  a  little  sick  afterwards,  sick  with  him 
and  with  myself. 


The  Camomile  233 

August  16.  Joanna  Banner-man's  mother  per- 
suaded Aunt  H.  to  let  a  Mr.  Abramovitch  address 
our  Friday  Meeting  to-day.  His  subject  was  "Jeru- 
salem To-day,"  and  his  face  shone  as  if  with  oil, 
perhaps  the  authentic  oil  of  joy  .  .  .  quite  a  young- 
ish man.  He  spent  the  evening  with  us  and  talked 
to  Ronald  about  Paris.  He  had  only  been  there  once 
on  his  way  from  Palestine,  but  enjoyed  himself  very 
much.  He  asked  Aunt  H.  if  she  had  ever  been  at 
the  Opera  C antique,  or  at  a  Cafe  Chantant!  When 
she  said  she  had  not,  he  rubbed  his  hands  and  ex- 
claimed: "Ah!  Bud  you  od  to  make  a  point  to  go, 
Mees  Carstairs !  You  are  just  wud  of  dose  dat  would 
amuse  wudself  colossal!"  He  then  began  praising 
the  excellence  of  the  brandy  they  gave  him  with 
his  black  coffee  in  Paris,  smacking  his  lips  and  ask- 
ing if  Ronald  did  not  agree  with  him.  Aunt  H. — 
with  an  eye  on  Eliza  who  was  clearing  the  things — 
loudly  extolled  the  famous  excellence  of  French  cof- 
fee. But  Mr.  A.  would  not  be  headed  off.  "Bud  it 
vas  de  brandy — eau  de  vie — dey  gif  you  wid  de 
caffee,"  he  insisted.  "It  vas  of  dat  I  am  spikking. 
Do  you  nod  agree,  eh?"  Impossible  to  discover 
whether  he  was  pulling  Aunt  H.'s  leg,  or  was  quite 
simple.  Ronald  and  I  both  thought  the  latter. 


234  The  Camomile 

When  he  went  Aunt  H.  was  very  angry  with  Mrs. 
Bannerman  and  said  she  would  never  devote  an- 
other of  her  meetings  to  Jerusalem.  She  does  not 
believe  Jews  ever  "get  properly  converted"! 

Sunday,  August  18.  Am  I  a  tiny  bit  hurt  in  my 
vanity  by  the  immediate  approval  of  my  engagement 
by  both  Aunt  H.  and  Ronald?  I'm  glad  of  course 
and  should  hate  it  otherwise.  Yet  I  thought  they 
would  show  just  a  little  more  distress  at  losing  me! 

Later.  R.  and  D.  get  on  splendidly.  They  are  so 
different;  perhaps  that's  why  they  admire  each  other 
so  much.  Yet  they  are  in  some  things  alike.  D. 
thinks  R.  "a  very  brilliant  chap."  R.  says  of  D. 
that  he  could  hardly  have  chosen  better  for  me  him- 
self. R.  is  in  great  spirits  these  days,  looking  for- 
ward to  New  York,  pleased  and  relieved  about  me. 
It  is  curious  to  see  how  relieved  every  one  seems 
about  me!  The  note  is  clearly  discernible  in  their 
voices  when  they  congratulate  me.  What  did  they 
think?  That  I  should  be  an  old  maid,  or  that  I'd 
go  wrong?  R.  keeps  saying  that  I  am  a  lucky  girl 
and  that,  though  it  is  no  more  than  I  deserve,  still 
few  hi  this  world  get  their  deserts.  A  good  many 
other  people,  including  the  Bruces,  make  no  bones 


The  Camomile  235 

about  it,  and  our  friend,  Miss  McRaith,  especially 
tries  to  rub  it  in  that  I  am  getting  something  much 
more  like  her  deserts  than  my  own.  Up  to  now  the 
only  person  in  Glasgow  (flatterers  like  Dr.  Stur- 
rock  aside)  who  has  suggested  that  Duncan  is  lucky 
to  get  me  is  poor  little  Nelly.  She  told  Duncan 
the  other  day  that  he  was  "a  braw  man  an'  all," 
but  that  if  he  were  "three  times  as  braw  an'  had 
twice  the  siller,"  he'd  be  "no  more  than  a  match 
for  our  Miss  Ellen!"  Duncan  was  delighted  with 
this.  So,  I  confess,  was  I. 

When  Ronald,  Duncan  and  I  are  all  together 
(fairly  often,  as  Ronald  is  going  so  soon)  R.  likes 
to  tease  me  by  begging  D.  not  to  fail  in  "knocking 
the  nonsense  out"  of  me.  To  which  D.  replies 
that  he  will  do  his  best.  I  feel  like  an  unintelli- 
gent, unintelligible  piece  of  goods  that  is  being 
handed  over  with  nods,  becks  and  wreathed  smiles 
by  one  intelligent  owner  to  another.  This  is  some- 
how not  wholly  unpleasant.  I  suppose  all  men  are 
like  this!  My  two  dearest  are,  anyhow,  so  I  may 
as  well  reckon  on  it. 

Aunt  H.  says:  "As  you  feel  no  call  to  the  great 
Work  from  which  your  father  never  turned  back, 
not  even  to  that  degree  of  choosing  your  husband 
from  among  the  Workers,  the  next  best  thing  that 


236  The  Camomile 

could  befall  your  father's  daughter  is  surely  to  be 
mated  with  a  good  man  usefully  employed,  and 
above  all  employed  in  one  of  those  distant  climes 
where  there  is  great  natural  beauty,  but  of  spiritual 
beauty  none  whatsoever  save  that  shed  by  the  bear- 
ers of  our  glorious  Gospel  overseas."  (I  notice  that 
for  some  days  after  the  Tea-and-Prayer  Meeting 
Aunt  H.'s  utterances  are  apt  to  be  of  this  periodic 
nature,  and  she  takes  great  pleasure  in  rounding 
them  off  in  the  true  platform  style.)  The  plain  fact, 
of  course,  is  that  she  is  heartily  glad  that  I  am  to 
be  handed  over  to  so  steady,  presentable,  and  suc- 
cessful a  man  as  Duncan.  This  is  something  of  an 
eye-opener,  for  I  had  often  wondered  how  I  should 
ever  be  able  to  leave  her,  now  that  R.  is  going, 
without  feeling  her  on  my  conscience.  She  will 
miss  me  in  certain  ways,  I  know,  but  not  so  much 
as  she  will  miss  R.,  and  her  health  and  energy  are 
such  that  our  both  going  will  leave  her  free  to 
throw  herself  more  completely  into  "the  great  Work 
here  at  home."  I  can  imagine  the  perfect  orgy  of 
meetings  she  will  indulge  in!  It  is  a  comfort  to 
know  that  in  all  material  ways  she  will  be  well 
looked  after  by  the  devoted  Eliza.  Already  she 
is  planning  a  visit  to  us  in  India,  and  D.  is  per- 
fectly sweet,  telling  her  all  about  the  missions  and 


The  Camomile  237 

missionaries  in  our  neighborhood.  He  warned  me 
privately  afterwards  that  I  shall  do  well  if  I  let 
"these  same  good  people"  see  my  "very  chilliest 
side,"  as  they  are  mostly  "Dutchmen"  and  social 
climbers  to  boot,  and  should  be  steadily  discour- 
aged. Though  I  have  no  great  love  of  missionaries, 
I  found  this  a  bit  hateful,  and  said  so;  but  D.  said 
I'd  soon  realize  the  wisdom  of  his  advice  when  I 
saw  the  people  and  the  situation  for  myself.  Per- 
haps they  are  all  like  Miss  McRaith,  in  which  case 
I  should  incline  to  agree  with  him. 

August  24.  Have  Don  John  and  Miss  Hepburn 
given  me  up  for  good?  Are  they  the  only  ones  who 
don't  approve  of  me  now?  D.  J.  has  not  answered 
my  letter  written  a  fortnight  ago.  I  have  been 
three  times  to  Miss  H.'s  house,  always  at  different 
but  likely  times  of  day,  and  twice  at  least  I  could 
have  sworn  she  was  in,  but  I  rang  the  bell  in  vain. 
The  last  time  (three  days  ago)  I  thought  I  saw 
her  peep  at  me  between  the  slats  of  the  drawn-down 
Venetian  blinds  of  the  dining-room,  and  if  this  was 
so,  then  her  refusal  to  see  me  is  deliberate.  I  shoved 
a  note  into  the  letter  box  telling  her  my  news,  just 
in  case  she  may  have  heard  it  elsewhere  and  is 
offended  because  of  my  not  letting  her  know  my- 


238  The  Camomile 

self.  But  she  has  not  acknowledged  my  note.  She 
is  not  ill,  because  Madge  and  Laura  saw  her  in 
Sauchiehall  Street  yesterday.  But  though  they 
passed  her  quite  close  and  were  nearly  stopping  to 
speak  to  her,  she  cut  them  dead.  Madge  says  she 
looked  "a  bit  in  the  air." 

At  nine  this  morning  went  to  Endrick  Street,  but 
did  not  call.  Walked  the  length  of  the  street  slowly. 
My  idea  was  that  I  might  catch  D.  J.  on  his  way  to 
a  pupil  or  to  the  Mitchell,  where  I  have  not  been 
for  an  age.  But  he  never  appeared.  Nothing  but 
the  dreary  sounds  of  carpets  being  beaten  and  stone 
stairs  scoured  for  the  Sabbath. 

ABERFOYLE. 

At  ten  A.M.  met  Duncan  at  Charing  Cross,  took 
train  to  Balloch  and  spent  the  day  on  Loch  Lomond. 
The  little  steamers  are  nice,  like  toys.  Everything 
looked  lovely  and  placid  ...  a  very  still,  warm 
day  again  with  the  leaves  just  beginning  to  fall  round 
the  water's  edge.  I  wore  my  white  dress  and  a 
sort  of  coat  I  made  out  of  an  old  Paisley  shawl  of 
Mother's,  which  people  stared  at  rather  too  much. 
We  had  a  picnic  on  the  shore  near  Luss  and  were 
caught  in  a  heavy  thunder  shower,  but  crept  under 
such  a  low,  dense  thicket  of  trees  and  bushes  that 


The  Camomile  239 

we  hardly  got  wet  at  all.  The  afternoon  was  fine 
and  we  went  by  boat  to  the  head  of  the  Loch  and 
walked  over  to  Aberfoyle.  Duncan  told  me  a  lot 
of  interesting  things  about  his  schooldays.  He  is 
a  darling.  It  was  perhaps  silly  wearing  the  white 
dress  and  it  got  very  draggled  before  the  end,  but 
it  was  this  one,  with  the  same  yellow  sash,  that  I 
wore  the  night  we  got  engaged.  We  got  here  just 
in  time  for  supper.  R.  and  Aunt  H.  had  gone 
earlier. 

ABERFOYLE. 

Sunday,  August  25.  Ronald's  second  last  Sun- 
day, so  we  are  here  all  together — a  joint  family 
party.  What  is  wrong  with  me?  Am  I  fundamen- 
tally unwomanly,  or  what  is  it?  This  afternoon 
every  one  was  chatty  and  full  of  Christian  loving- 
kindness  (Aunt  H.  and  Mrs.  B.  don't  really  get 
on  well  under  the  surface),  but  I  alone  felt  out  of 
it  ...  critical,  hostile,  rather  miserable.  A  sick- 
ness comes  over  me.  A  voice  cries  in  my  ear:  "This 
is  not  your  world!  Get  out  of  this!  Find  your 
own  place!"  But  where,  what  is  my  world?  I 
don't  know.  I  only  know  I  felt  nearer  to  it — less 
hopelessly  cut  off — when  Ruby  and  I  were  students 
in  Frankfort.  Why  should  Mrs.  B.,  when  she  gives 


240  The  Camomile 

me  solemn  advice  about  bed  linen,  or  shows  me 
the  crochet  she  is  doing  for  Madge's  toilet  covers, 
either  bore  me  savagely  or  make  me  want  to  shriek 
with  laughter?  Are  not  these  the  people  I  have 
grown  up  among?  Why  should  their  thoughts  be  so 
unfamiliar,  even  grotesque,  to  me? 

At  night  when  I  was  going  to  bed,  almost  drop- 
ping with  fatigue,  Duncan  whistled  outside,  and  I 
threw  on  my  clothes  again  and  ran  down  to  him  in 
the  garden  for  a  few  minutes.  This  made  up  for 
all  that  had  gone  before.  In  the  moonlight  he  sud- 
denly looked  very  young,  like  a  boy  god  with  ar- 
dent eyes,  and  he  made  me  feel  lovely  too,  and  full 
of  gifts  which  were  all  for  him  alone.  But  why 
are  we  engaged?  I  feel  as  if  there  were  nothing  but 
crochet  toilet  mats  keeping  us  from  being  married! 
How,  if  all  D.  says  is  true,  can  he  tolerate  the 
situation? 

GLASGOW. 

August  27.  Very  busy  finishing  things  up  for 
Ronald,  and  while  Aunt  H.  and  I  are  in  the  shops 
we  keep  getting  things  for  me  too.  R.  has  given 
me  a  most  beautiful  little  old  silver  teapot  and  cream 
jug.  Aunt  H.  and  I  between  us  are  getting  him  a 
dressing-case  with  the  plainest  possible  fittings,  but 


The  Camomile  241 

all  of  the  best.    I  think  he  will  like  it,  but  he  can 
never  love  it  as  I  love  his  cream  jug  and  teapot. 

Heard  to-day  that  Archie  Moncrieff,  the  doctor 
cousin  in  Aberdeen,  has  married  again  (just  seven 
months  after  the  beloved  Peggy's  death! )  and  what's 
more,  the  woman  he  is  marrying  has  two  young 
children  that  are  said  to  be  his!  "A  most  lamenta- 
ble business! "  says  Aunt  H.  It  just  shows  what  his 
famous  devotion  to  Peggy  was  worth.  I  expect 
she  put  the  devotion  story  about  herself  to  save 
her  pride.  But  perhaps  she  was  too  stuck  on  her- 
self even  to  suspect  it! 

August  29.  Dobbin's  concert  in  the  Burgh  Hall 
to-morrow  night! 

August  30.  Just  come  home  from  Dobinova's 
piano  recital.  I  don't  know  which  is  the  greater, 
my  delight  at  her  playing  or  my  shame  at  the  be- 
havior of  her  audience.  A  pianist  of  the  first  rank, 
but  young  and  unknown,  a  heaven-sent  genius  with 
fire  and  honey  in  her  finger-tips — and  because  she 
cuts  her  hair  short  and  wears  a  black  velvet  jacket 
like  a  boy's,  one  can  hardly  hear  her  softer  passages 
for  the  titters  of  Billhead!  She  sits  down  at  the 
piano,  quite  unaffectedly  pushes  a  lock  of  hair  over 


242  The  Camomile 

her  ear  and — the  imbeciles  burst  out  laughing!  She 
plays  a  Chopin  study  magnificently,  and  there  is 
some  applause  at  the  end,  but  the  whole  way 
through,  at  the  slightest,  most  natural  movement  of 
shoulders  or  hands  in  a  staccato  passage,  people 
dig  each  other  in  the  ribs  and  giggle  audibly.  Once, 
to  their  delight,  she  looks  at  them  with  a  furious 
frown  over  her  shoulder.  With  what  satisfaction 
could  I  have  murdered  them  all!  She  was  ill-advised 
enough  to  play  several  pieces  by  an  unknown  com- 
poser— interesting  but  difficult  music — and  this  gave 
her  audience  the  greater  opportunity  to  wax  face- 
tious over  her  mannerisms,  or  what  they  considered 
her  mannerisms,  for  to  none  but  crassly  provincial 
and  ignorant  minds  could  there  have  seemed  any- 
thing here  not  consistent  with  the  simple,  youthful 
ardor  of  a  highly  expressive  person.  Dobbin  in  no 
way  obtrudes  herself  between  her  music  and  any  de- 
cent listener.  It  is  simply  that  a  striking  person- 
ality and  the  effort  made  by  some  one  as  yet  obscure 
to  simplify  her  costume  and  coiffure, strikes  the  Burgh 
Hall  as  intensely  comic.  In  the  Queen's  Rooms  or 
St.  Andrew's  Hall  she  might  have  been  all  right- 
protected.  But  her  fool  of  an  agent  had  exposed  her 
to  this!  And  in  spite  of  it  all  she  continued  to  play 
magnificently. 


The  Camomile  243 

At  the  end  I  went  to  thank  and  congratulate  her 
and  she  was  absurdly  delighted.  Her  greatest  suc- 
cess up  till  now  has  been  in  Munich,  where  she  at 
once  made  good.  Munich,  and  then  this!  I  felt 
it  impossible  to  apologize  for  Glasgow,  but  partly, 
I  suppose,  because  of  this,  I  had  the  overwhelming 
desire  to  see  her  heaped  with  honors  and  luxuries. 
But  I  had  not  money  on  me  even  for  a  cab.  She 
had  been  traveling  all  that  day  and  all  the  night 
before,  giving  a  concert  first  at  Leeds,  then  at  Man- 
chester, and  arriving  only  just  in  time  for  her  Glas- 
gow recital.  She  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  break- 
fast but  a  pork  pie  in  the  train.  I  went  with  her 
in  the  tram-car  as  far  as  her  hotel,  where  I  thought 
it  kindest  not  to  go  in  as  she  was  almost  beside  her- 
self with  fatigue.  I  gave  her  my  cairngorm  brooch 
as  a  keepsake.  It  was  the  only  thing  of  any  value 
I  had  on  me.  Luckily  it  was  the  nicest  piece  of 
jewelry  (not  counting  my  engagement  ring)  I  ever 
possessed.  As  she  leaves  early  to-morrow  morning 
and  I  have  a  lesson  at  the  hour  of  her  train,  I  shall 
not  see  her  again.  Good  luck  to  her ! 

August  31.  A  day  of  small  worries  and  constant 
demands  on  me  which  I  should  not  mind  so  much 
if  they  served  any  special  purpose.  But  I  resent 


244  The  Camomile 

them  because  they  are  mostly  invented  demands. 
A  bit  disgusted  with  clothes  and  things.  It  is  over- 
done .  .  .  those  consultations  .  .  .  this  unending 
shopping,  sometimes  with  Mrs.  Bruce,  sometimes 
with  Aunt  H.  Those  two  differ  fundamentally  on 
the  trousseau  subject.  On  the  whole,  I  prefer  Aunt 
H.  (though  trying)  in  that  line  as  in  most  others. 

It  is  strange  being  engaged  ...  all  the  familiar 
land-marks  gone  and  my  mind  filled  with  restless, 
rather  fearful  visions  of  what  the  new  ones  are 
to  be.  They  have  not  appeared  yet. 

It  is  like  one  of  the  changes  wrought  by  magic 
in  the  fairy  tales.  A  few  weeks  ago  D.  was  only 
Madge's  nice,  attractive  brother,  the  shape  of  whose 
back  always  gave  me  a  queer  thrill  down  my  own 
spine.  Now  he  is  my  present,  my  future  ...  his 
shoulders  blot  out  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Yet 
till  we  are  husband  and  wife  I  cannot  really  know 
very  much  about  him,  nor  he  about  me.  When  I 
try  specially  to  be  frank  about  myself  he  seems 
to  prefer  being  left  hi  the  dark.  As  for  me,  I  have 
no  time,  no  peace  to  come  to  any  decisions  or  clear 
up  the  turmoil  in  my  mind.  I  can  hardly  think. 
Between  the  two  excitements — the  novelty  of  show- 
ing myself  off  and  being  reexamined  by  every  one* as 
a  woman  betrothed,  and  the  swamping  hours  of 


The  Camomile  245 

love-making,  when  my  life  is  left  like  a  shore  strewn 
with  wreckage,  I  Ijave  lost  my  old  considering  ways. 
I  no  longer  live:  I  palpitate  in  a  monotony  of  emo- 
tions. I  can  neither  examine  nor  control  anything. 
I  merely  react.  Here  is  one  clear  observation  that 
emerges.  When  I  am  with  D.,  in  spite  of  the  deli- 
ciousness  of  being  wooed  and  of  feeling  myself  swept 
each  time  off  my  feet  into  ardent  response,  I  am 
conscious  of  a  deep  and  constant  longing  to  get  away 
from  him,  to  be  quite  alone,  to  examine  this  new 
treasure  of  love  without  fever  or  elation.  Yet  no 
sooner  am  I  alone  than  my  mind  begins  to  wheel 
in  circles  and  I  can  examine  nothing,  nor  feel  any- 
thing but  a  longing  to  be  once  more  hi  his  arms 
and  unconscious  of  a  mind  at  all.  There  is  some- 
thing wearisome — frightening,  too — in  this  pendu- 
lum existence.  I  often  feel  as  if  a  touch  from 
the  outside  might  suddenly  crystallize  things  for  me 
and  give  me  what  now  I  wholly  lack — some  clear 
satisfaction  and  sense  of  direction.  This,  I  think, 
is  partly  why  I  long  so  hungrily  to  hear  what  Don 
John  has  to  say,  or  if  he  would  not  speak,  to  read 
in  his  eyes  what  he  in  his  wise  remoteness  thinks 
of  the  whole  thing.  Once  or  twice  I  have  tried  to 
tell  Duncan  something  of  my  trouble,  and  each 
time  he  has  explained  it  logically  enough,  yet  not, 


246  The  Camomile 

I  think,  completely.  He  says  it  is  quite  natural, 
that  this  is  a  transition  stage,  that  once  we  are 
married  and  away  by  our  two  selves  in  India  every- 
thing will  straighten  out.  But  I  can  see  that  he 
does  not  share  my  present  distress.  He  could  not 
so  prolong  our  engagement  if  he  did.  He  thinks  I 
have  grown  "just  a  wee  bit  morbid,"  being  too 
much  alone  with  my  thoughts,  which  is  "bad  for 
women."  He  believes  the  life  in  India,  with  its 
tennis  and  riding,  jolly,  rather  superficial  chatter 
and  determined  suppression  of  serious  talk,  will 
be  the  best  possible  antidote  for  me.  How 
I  hope  and  try  to  believe  that  he  is  right!  He  says 
I'm  sure  to  be  a  tremendous  success  out  there — 
this  of  course  would  be  enjoyable — and  that  I'll 
have  any  amount  of  human  nature  to  study  (vide 
Kipling,  whose  work  unfortunately  has  never 
meant  much  to  me).  But  he  warns  me  to  beware 
of  one  thing  as  of  the  devil.  In  India  I  must 
not  speak  of  anything  abstract  or  "superior,"  or  of 
"high-brow  works  of  art,"  unless  I  am  content  to  be 
regarded  as  a  bore  and  a  blue-stocking.  I  am  to 
keep  all  my  real  thoughts  for  him,  and  to  "let  others 
be  dazzled  by  the  small  change  of  my  wit."  He 
says  life  will  be  all  the  more  thrilling  this  way.  For 
it  will  be  our  delicious  secret  that  he  has  married 


The  Camomile  247 

"such  a  serious  little  woman."  It  sounds  all  right, 
even  very  flattering  when  he  says  it,  but  after  a 
while  I  have  a  paralyzing  vision  of  myself  glum  and 
silent  on  a  veranda  among  all  the  jolly  Anglo- 
Indians,  unable  to  utter  a  single  word  in  case  I  may 
blurt  out  something  serious  and  so  disappoint  Dun- 
can and  make  an  ineradicably  bad  impression  in 
the  station.  I  have  told  D.  this,  but  he  only  laughs. 
He  laughs  at  almost  everything  I  say.  Perhaps  it 
is  the  best  plan !  We  were  very  happy  this  evening 
sitting  in  his  father's  study  till  after  midnight  in 
the  empty  house,  for  Dr.  Bruce  had  gone  to  Aber- 
foyle  for  the  week-end. 

The  date  of  our  wedding  is  fixed  for  December  3. 
We  are  going  to  the  south  of  France  for  a  Christ- 
mas honeymoon,  and  sailing  for  India  early  in  the 
New  Year.  It  sounds  very  "grand,"  as  Madge  says. 
All  very  well,  but  Madge  herself  is  to  be  married  in 
ten  days.  And  December  .  .  .  and  this  is  still  only 
August!  It  seems  a  bit  silly  to  me  I 

Sunday,  September  1.  Ronald's  last  Sunday. 
Nothing  of  any  significance  was  said  or  done,  ex- 
cept that  we  all  went  to  church  together  at  night — 
a  custom  long  since  disused  with  us — and  Dr.  Stur- 
rock  seemed  to  take  account  of  us  in  his  sermon 


248  The  Camomile 

which  was  from  Revelations,  about  there  being  no 
more  sea.  I  cried  a  good  deal,  though  quite  secretly, 
during  the  service.  During  the  day  I  tried  not  to 
hang  round  Ronald  too  much,  and  never  even  be- 
gan to  say  any  of  the  things  my  heart  was  burst- 
ing with.  R.  is  very  Scotch  in  those  ways  and  pre- 
fers to  take  things  as  said,  but  he  knew  well  enough 
what  I  was  feeling.  He  was  very  gentle  with  Aunt 
H.  and  with  me.  But,  oh,  how  deeply  glad  he  is 
to  be  off!  And  how  I  sympathize  with  him! 

September  2.  R.  left  this  morning.  He  said  he 
would  rather  say  good-by  in  Glasgow,  so  neither  of 
us  went  to  Liverpool  with  him.  I  woke  before  six, 
heard  him  moving  in  his  room,  and  went  in  for 
about  half  an  hour.  We  talked  of  nothing  special. 
Only  one  thing  .  .  .  "whatever  happens  at  any 
time,  Peg,"  he  said  (he  very  seldom  calls  me  Peg), 
"remember  there's  always  me."  And  I  said  I'd 
remember.  In  the  afternoon  Aunt  H.  prayed  a  long 
time  alone  in  her  bedroom  and  was  very  sweet  to 
me  all  evening.  I  had  a  good  cry  at  night.  I  never 
felt  the  end  of  childhood  till  now. 

September  3.  The  doctor  taking  Duncan's  place 
in  the  district  has  turned  ill.  This  may  mean  that 


The  Camomile  249 

D.'s  leave  will  be  cut  short.  I'm  glad  now  that  he 
made  me  give  up  my  pupils.  Everything  is  so  far 
forward  that  I  could  be  ready  for  us  to  be  mar- 
ried in  a  week's  time. 

September  4.  What  a  lovely  autumn!  To-day  is 
colder.  I  had  to  wear  a  coat.  But  it  is  still  beau- 
tiful, quiet  weather  with  a  very  slight  fog  in  the 
mornings.  I  like  to  see  the  melons  in  the  fruiterers' 
windows.  I  miss  Ronald  fearfully. 

September  5.  Had  a  horrible  dream  about  Dun- 
can last  night.  He  was  coming  toward  me  to  kiss 
me,  and  all  his  face  was  mouth — one  huge  voracious 
mouth.  In  my  terror  at  being  devoured  I  woke  up. 
Did  not  sleep  again  for  a  long  time. 

September  6.  Our  first  real  quarrel.  Simply 
don't  know  what  to  do.  Several  cables  have  ar- 
rived from  Duncan's  locum  to  say  he  is  worse.  D. 
will  have  to  go  out  within  a  fortnight.  He  is  dis- 
gusted, but  we  both  see  the  clear  necessity.  The 
question  is  our  marriage.  As  this  has  happened, 
I  ask  why  we  should  not  be  married  at  once?  I 
can  be  ready,  and  should  love,  more  than  any 
Riviera  honeymoon,  the  voyage  together  and  the 


250  The  Camomile 

necessity  of  helping  him  in  his  work  at  once  when 
we  arrive  in  what  is  to  be  our  home.  But,  no!  D. 
says  September  is  not  the  right  time  for  a  bride  to 
go  to  India  .  .  .  that  we  should  have  to  separate 
at  once,  I  to  go  to  the  hills  for  the  rainy  season 
.  .  .  that  even  so,  I  might  suffer  from  the  heat  .  .  . 
that  he's  sure  I  will  want  more  time  to  get  my 
trousseau  together  (oh,  that  damned  trousseau  1 )  and 
so  on. 

I  have  dug  out  of  him  that  in  his  district  the 
climate  is  really  not  considered  bad  in  the  rains, 
certainly  not  dangerous  .  .  .  only  a  little  trying,  but 
not  so  much  so  as  to  have  kept  one  of  the  German 
missionaries  from  taking  his  bride  there  from  Europe 
last  August  and  keeping  her  there  .  .  .  that's  to 
say,  she  has  not  even  needed  to  go  to  the  hills  yet. 
It  must  either  be  then,  I  tell  him,  that  he  regards 
me  as  a  fragile  flower  which  must  under  no  circum- 
stances be  allowed  to  take  the  faintest  avoidable 
risk,  even  for  love's  sake,  or  that  he  dislikes  the 
idea  of  what  people  may  say  of  him  for  not  doing 
the  absolutely  conventional  thing.  If  the  first  is 
the  reason,  then  he  must  in  his  heart  of  hearts  hold 
me  inferior  to  the  missionary's  wife  and  our  love 
as  less  fervent  than  evangelistic  zeal.  If  the  sec- 
ond is  the  reason,  he  must  consider  himself  supe- 


The  Camomile  251 

rior  to  the  German  missionary  in  fineness  or  breed- 
ing, or  something  else  that  is  "undefinable  but  un- 
mistakable," as  he  once  said  was  the  superiority  of 
Englishmen  to  the  rest  of  human  creation.  In 
neither  case  can  I  see  that  the  point  is  arguable. 
With  another  woman  it  might  be,  but  I  am  not  flat- 
tered by  this  particular  kind  of  solicitude.  It  isn't 
even  as  if  the  missionary's  wife  has  suffered  from 
the  heat,  for  the  last  thing  Duncan  did  before  com- 
ing home  on  leave  was  to  attend  her  for  her  first 
baby,  and  if  there  had  been  any  ill  effects,  he  would, 
I  feel  sure,  have  made  use  of  them  as  unanswerable 
arguments. 

Three  times  now  we  have  discussed  the  matter, 
but  each  time  I  asked  him  to  give  me  some  good 
reason — good  as  between  him  and  me — for  the 
delay,  a  sort  of  wooden  look  has  come  into 
his  face,  and  he  has  told  me  that  if  he  were  to  fail 
in  "perfect  consideration,"  his  love  for  me  would  not 
be  "the  kind  of  love  a  man  should  have  for  his 
wife."  Then  he  actually  told  me  with  perfect  solem- 
nity— reminding  me  dreadfully  of  his  mother — that 
the  missionary's  baby,  though  a  full-time  child,  was 
born  within  seven  months  of  its  parents'  wedding! 
"And  that's  the  sort  of  woman,"  his  expression  said, 
"that  you  are  asking  me  to  put  you  on  a  level  withl" 


252  The  Camomile 

At  this  I  completely  lost  my  head,  exclaimed  that 
he  could  take  all  the  credit  for  that  himself,  as 
personally  I  should  be  not  only  willing  but  delighted 
to  be  in  the  same  case  myself  .  .  .  that  I  thought 
it  "a  long  sight  more  decent"  than  what  seemed  the 
ordinary  course  of  an  engagement  between  two 
young  and  warm-blooded  people  like  ourselves  .  .  . 
that  I  didn't  want  "the  kind  of  love  a  man  should 
have  for  his  wife,"  or  anything  that  any  one  should 
have,  .  .  .  that  I  only  wanted  his,  Duncan's,  love 
for  me — Ellen.  At  first  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
be  angry,  but  instead,  a  look  I  have  never  seen 
before  came  into  his  eyes  and  he  kissed  me  almost 
brutally.  He  called  me  "a  jewel  of  a  girl,"  said 
that  other  men  would  envy  him  fearfully  if  only 
they  guessed  what  I  was  like,  and  swore  we  were 
going  to  have  a  glorious  existence  together.  But 
though  I  could  not  help  responding  in  a  way,  I 
never  before  felt  so  mentally  cool  and  observant 
in  his  arms.  He  too  must  have  been  less  carried 
away  than  he  seemed,  for  afterwards  when  I  asked 
the  same  question  again — "Shall  we  be  married  at 
once  then?" — he  simply  laughed,  took  his  arms 
away,  and  shook  his  head  in  as  perfect  an  obstinacy 
as  ever.  "You  thought  you'd  get  round  me  that 
way,  you  little  villain!"  he  said.  "But  I  mean  to 


The  Camomile  253 

do  the  right  thing  in  spite  of  all  your  sorceries  1" 
I  didn't  know  whether  to  slay  him  for  his  lack  of 
understanding  or  to  adore  him  for  his  sheer  mascu- 
line fatuity.  Anyhow,  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
not  to  have  another  argument  on  the  subject.  If 
for  any  reason  he  prefers  to  wait  till  the  New  Year 
for  me,  I'll  not  be  the  one  to  thwart  him. 

September  7.  Cooler  to-day,  within  and  without! 
There  may  after  all  be  something  in  what  D.  says, 
that  getting  married  out  there  will  be  much  jollier 
than  it  would  be  in  Glasgow.  Both  he  and  I  dis- 
like the  frightful  middle-class  feeling  of  a  Glas- 
gow wedding,  especially  when  the  ceremony  takes 
place  in  the  drawing-room  as  Aunt  H.  would  wish 
it.  In  India  we  can  have  everything  arranged  just 
as  we  choose  without  considering  any  one  but  our- 
selves. Also  he  says  that  he  will  take  me  to  Kashmir 
for  our  honeymoon  in  January,  and  we  shall  live 
in  a  house-boat.  That  of  course  will  be  splendid. 
He  leaves  on  the  fifteenth.  I  don't  realize  it  yet. 

September  8.  Two  Anglo-Indian  friends  from 
D.'s  district — a  Deputy  Commissioner  and  his  wife 
(English) — have  been  seeing  the  Trosachs,  and  D. 
has  invited  them  to  lunch  to-morrow  at  the  N.B. 


254  The  Camomile 

Station  Hotel,  so  that  I  may  be  introduced.  I  had 
thought  of  wearing  my  white  dress  if  it  was  a  fine 
day,  but  D.  says  this  is  an  occasion  in  which  such 
"sweet-seventeenishness"  might  make  the  D.  C.'s 
wife  rather  patronizing.  "They  think  a  lot  of  them- 
selves, those  I.  C.'s,"  he  says,  and:  "This  is  a  case 
for  smartness  above  all  ...  I  want  to  watch  the 
condescension  fade  out  of  Mrs.  B.'s  eagle  eye  when 
she  sees  the  little  Glasgow  girl  who  is  marrying 
me  ...  what  about  that  black  silk  frock  with  the 
ruchings  that  make  the  skirt  swing?" 

So  the  black  it  shall  be.  I  mean  to  do  my  very 
best  to  please  D.  and  impress  his  friends. 

September  9.  What  a  day!  I  did  my  best,  but  I 
failed. 

First  thing  after  breakfast  I  went  and  had  my 
hair  washed  at  Brumby's,  and  got  the  man  (such 
a  clever  German)  to  dress  it  in  the  new  way,  rather 
close  to  the  head  and  in  a  roll  at  the  back,  which 
becomes  me  surprisingly  well,  though  I  think  it 
makes  me  look  a  bit  older,  especially  with  the  black 
taffeta  which  is  a  French  model  and  one  of  my  best 
trousseau  things.  I  wore  my  black  patent  shoes, 
which  pinch  me  a  bit,  and  black  silk  stockings,  and 
white  gloves — no  color  at  all  except  for  my  little 


The  Camomile  255 

rose-colored  bridesmaid's  hat.  When  D.  called  for 
me  he  said  I  looked  "so  bewitchingly  smart"  that 
he  was  half  afraid  to  kiss  me.  But  he  did  kiss  me, 
so  much  indeed  that  we  almost  made  ourselves  late, 
for  I  had  to  go  and  put  on  my  hat  again  and  prac- 
tically re-do  my  hair.  Just  as  I  was  going  to  tidy 
myself  D.  pulled  quite  an  ordinary  looking  little 
crushed  paper  packet  out  of  his  pocket  and  rather 
shyly  handed  it  to  me,  saying:  "You  might  try  these 
on  at  the  same  time  and  wear  them  if  you  like 
them  well  enough."  "These"  were  pearls!  Real 
ones — a  most  lovely  string,  neither  too  big  nor  too 
small,  and  the  most  beautiful  color!  Oh,  Duncan! 
When  I  came  back  with  them  on  I  almost  scolded 
him,  but  he  knew  by  the  tears  in  my  eyes  how  I 
loved  them,  coming  from  him.  He  said  they  were 
not  half  good  enough  for  me.  He  just  spoiled  things 
a  wee  bit  by  adding,  "Mrs.  B.  will  be  green  with 
envy,  I'm  thinking!" 

When  I  saw  Mrs.  B.  I  marveled  that  Duncan 
could  think  it  worth  while  taking  any  trouble  what- 
soever to  impress  her.  There  are  people  below 
the  average  in  every  apparent  way — in  looks,  in 
taste,  in  charm,  in  manners,  in  brains  and  in  feel- 
ing— who  yet  go  about  declaring,  as  it  were  with 
every  accent  and  gesture,  that  for  some  reason,  un- 


256  The  Camomile 

known  and  undiscoverable  by  others,  they  are  spe- 
cial sort  of  people  deserving,  without  themselves 
making  any  effort,  to  have  special  treatment  on  their 
way  through  life.  Mrs.  B.,  I  think,  is  one  of  these. 
If  the  waiter  was  a  bit  slow,  if  the  window  was  not 
at  the  right  angle  to  her  seat,  if  the  soup  was  cold, 
it  was  not  simply  a  nuisance,  as  it  would  be  with 
most  people;  it  was  a  thing  that  ought  not  to  hap- 
pen where  she  was  concerned,  or  probably  where 
any  of  her  family  was  concerned.  This  attitude  to 
life  is  so  interesting  to  watch  that  once  or  twice 
I  quite  lost  myself  in  observation,  thinking  what 
a  good  character  such  a  woman  would  make  in  a 
play.  Aunt  H.  has  a  friend  like  that — an  ugly 
oldish  woman  who  wears  horrible  clothes  and  has 
a  mustache  and  straggly  hairs  on  her  chin.  She 
does  not  even  keep  her  ears  clean,  is  not  rich  nor 
clever,  is  no  more  a  saint  than  she  is  a  sinner.  Yet 
with  each  word  she  utters  she  proclaims  that  she 
is  an  important  and  remarkable  woman.  And  many 
people  in  Glasgow  take  her  at  her  own  valuation, 
perhaps  because  it  happens  that  her  father  was  a 

-rkable  and  eloquent  Free  Church  minister. 
Mrs.  B.,  to  do  her  justice,  was  not  so  bad  as  that. 
She  was  just  commonplace  and  thought  herself  ex- 
ceptional.   She  was  touched  up,  though  not  dash- 


The  Camomile  257 

ingly  so — the  kind  that  doesn't  dye  her  hair,  only 
"uses  a  hairwash";  doesn't  rouge,  only  rubs  a  little 
lip-salve  on  her  cheeks.  And  with  half-hearted  re- 
sults. Her  husband  had  a  thin,  withered-up  face — 
rather  nice — and  wore  spectacles.  All  went  fairly 
well  at  first.  After  a  few  polite  remarks  to  me 
about  the  Trosachs — something  as  if  it  was  a  pri- 
vate garden  of  mine  and  as  if  I  were  responsible 
for  the  bad  weather  they  said  they  had  had  there — 
they  plunged  with  D.  into  an  extremely  animated, 
gossipy  conversation  about  people  in  the  District. 
The  talk  in  itself  was  not  very  thrilling,  as  they  did 
not  seem  concerned  with  the  people  they  talked  of 
as  people,  but  only  in  so  far  as  their  doings  affected 
life  in  the  District.  Naturally  I  could  not  join  in 
much,  and  once  or  twice  I  found  myself  wanting  to 
yawn.  Yet  I  was  interested  of  course.  Those  were 
Duncan's  friends,  they  were  speaking  of  the  people 
I  am  going  to  live  among,  and  it  was  quite  amusing 
trying  to  piece  together  characters  in  the  District 
from  the  remarks  and  stories  I  was  listening  to. 
But  what  interested  me  far  more  deeply  was  the 
liveliness  of  the  talkers.  D.'s  vivacity  simply 
amazed  me.  Though  a  cheerful  soul  he  is  usually 
rather  silent.  But  here  he  was,  chattering  and  laugh- 
ing without  pause,  and  with  perfect  spontaneity. 


258  The  Camomile 

I  could  hardly  take  my  eyes  off  him.  He  became 
aware  of  this,  and  began  to  parade  himself  very 
subtly  before  me.  Once,  as  I  was  watching,  at  the 
same  time  smiling  and  fingering  my  pearls,  our  eyes 
happened  to  meet  and  I  felt  myself  go  hot  all  over 
under  my  clothes.  He  and  I  knew,  but  I  don't 
think  any  one  else  could  have  guessed  anything  from 
my  face. 

When  we  came  to  the  ices  there  was  a  lull,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  felt,  all  three  at  the  same  time, 
that  I  ought  to  be  included  more  in  the  conversa- 
tion. Mr.  B.  had  already  half  apologized  once  or 
twice,  but  I  had  each  time  begged  them  to  go  on, 
saying  it  was  very  interesting  to  me.  Now,  how- 
ever, they  felt  it  was  time  some  remarks  ought  to  be 
addressed  directly  to  me,  and  Mrs.  B.  pulled  herself 
together.  For  a  few  instants  she  cast  about  for  a 
subject,  staring  all  the  while  at  my  pearls  as  if 
she  was  wondering  if  they  were  real.  Then  she 
asked  me  if  I  was  "fond  of  reading." 

I  daresay  it  is  silly  and  socially  unskilful  in  me, 
but  this  question,  "Are  you  fond  of  reading?"  al- 
ways has  something  of  the  same  effect  on  me  as 
the  question  Aunt  H.'s  missionary  friends  used  to 
ask  me  in  my  teens  if  I  was  unlucky  enough  to  be 
left  alone  with  one  of  them  for  a  minute — "Ellen, 


The  Camomile  259 

do  you  love  Jesus?"  As  I  don't  like  to  be  rude  and 
laugh,  I  feel  myself  getting  red,  and  I  wildly  ques- 
tion within  myself  whether  I  should  answer  "Yes," 
or  "No,"  or  "It  depends  on  what  you  mean,"  or  "At 
times,"  and  what  the  immediate  effect  of  each  an- 
swer would  be.  In  this  case,  to  make  things  pleas- 
ant, I  replied  fairly  quickly  and  in  a  cheerful  tone, 
"Yes,  I'm  very  fond  of  reading  .  .  ."  and  then  some- 
thing compelled  me  to  add,  "some  books." 

Mrs.  B.  smiled,  though  in  rather  astonished  agree- 
ment. "Some  books!"  she  echoed.  "How  true  that 
is!  There's  such  a  lot  of  trash,  isn't  there?  Now 
myself,  I  have  a  perfect  passion  for  reading,  but 
I  can't  stand  trash.  Who  are  your  favorite 
authors?" 

The  conversation  that  followed  was  frightful  in 
its  sheer  hopelessness.  I  honestly  struggled  not  to 
be  "superior,"  but  perhaps  the  look  in  D.'s  anxious 
but  unhelpful  eyes  drove  me  on  to  say  things  I 
should  not  otherwise  have  thought  of.  I  had  not 
read  a  single  one  of  the  novels  she  enthusiastically 
praised  for  their  "quaintness,"  "daring  point  of 
view,"  etc.  And  when  I  was  driven  back  on  to 
the  standard  novelists  (when  she  asked  me  what 
had  I  read?)  it  became  too  obvious  that  she  was 
lying  when  she  pretended  to  know  more  about  them 


260  The  Camomile 

than  their  names.  I  saw  a  quick,  summing-up  glance 
pass  between  husband  and  wife,  and  D.  saw  it  too, 
for  a  little  frown  of  displeasure  came  between  his 
brows.  By  this  time  I  didn't  care  if  he  was  vexed, 
for  I  thought  it  mean  of  him  not  to  have  come  to  my 
rescue  in  some  way.  Again  and  again  I  longed 
to  say,  "Let's  change  this  painful  and  futile  con- 
versation." But  that  would  have  been  impolite,  so 
it  had  to  peter  out  drearily. 

By  good  luck  we  got  next  on  to  clothes,  and  I 
asked  Mrs.  B.'s  advice  about  having  my  habits  made 
for  side-saddle  or  riding  astride  (I  have  been  hav- 
ing lessons  in  both  ways).  But  then  unfortunately 
Mr.  B. — meaning  I  am  sure  no  harm — asked  if  I 
played  bridge.  When  I  said  I  didn't,  and  was  not 
fond  of  card  games,  another  glance  was  exchanged. 
It  was  as  if  I  had  told  strict  Church  of  England 
people  that  I  was  "Chapel."  Mr.  B.  tried  to  rally. 
"That's  bad,"  he  said,  only  half  jocularly.  "You'll 
have  to  put  that  right!" 

"Why  in  heaven's  name  .  .  .  ! "  I  nearly  shouted 
out.  ...  "I  hate  cards.  They  bore  me.  And  I 
don't  mean  to  learn  to  please  you  or  the  whole  of 
India!"  But  for  D.'s  sake  I  refrained.  I  merely 
said:  "Don't  you  think  it  might  be  stupid  of  me  to 
learn  a  game  that  doesn't  attract  me,  and  for  which 


The  Camomile  261 

I  have  no  aptitude?  I  should  only  spoil  it  for  the 
good  players  like  Duncan.  I  shall  be  quite  content 
to  sweep  up  his  winnings."  This  last  remark,  as  it 
turned  out,  was  singularly  unfortunate,  for,  as  D. 
has  now  told  me,  he  is  not  merely  a  good  but  a 
lucky  player,  and  off  and  on  Mr.  B.  has  lost  a  good 
deal  of  money  to  him! 

When  it  was  over  I  felt  ill.  I  very  nearly  cried 
walking  down  Buchanan  Street  with  D.  And  then 
he  really  was  sweet.  He  damned  the  B.'s  and 
everybody,  said  what  did  it  matter  if  I  played  no 
bridge  or  was  a  regular  blue-stocking,  I  was 
worth  all  the  treasure  of  the  Indies,  and  I  was 
not  to  bother  my  head  with  such  trifles.  It  was  only 
three  o'clock,  but  he  took  me  to  Brassey's,  and  we 
drank  tea  and  sat  there  talking  fairly  happily  till 
after  five.  Once  I  asked  him,  Suppose,  after  we  were 
married,  that  instead  of  playing  tennis  and  things 
I  wanted  to  sit  dully  at  home  writing  "high-brow" 
stories,  would  that  be  painful  to  him? 

At  this  he  looked  a  little  troubled,  but  he  took  it 
seriously  as  I  had  prayed  he  would,  and  very  rea- 
sonably said  he  would  never  like  to  stand  in  my 
way,  but  he  thought  I  was  "so  much  a  woman"  that 
what  I  suggested  was  unlikely  to  happen.  "Life," 
he  said,  "is  a  bigger  affair  than  books,  and  life  is 


262  The  Camomile 

preeminently  your  business.  Wait  till  your  hands 
are  full  of  life,  and  I  doubt  if  you  will  have  the 
time  or  the  wish  to  add  to  the  mass  of  feminine 
writings  already  in  the  world."  This,  I  must  say, 
deeply  impressed  me. 

When  I  asked,  Didn't  it  seem  unfair  that  men 
writers  could  write  and  yet  not  be  stinted  of  life? 
he  agreed  that  perhaps  it  was  unfair,  but  that  things 
were  like  that  and  had  to  be  faced. 

I  feel  that  he  is  right,  and  yet  that  somewhere 
there  is  an  untruth  in  his  argument.  It  is  true  that 
if  I  had  to  choose  between  writing  and  life  I  should 
choose  life.  But  then  I  couldn't  do  otherwise,  for 
without  living  myself  I  know  I  couldn't  write:  I  am 
not  imaginative  enough.  And  is  any  one?  Besides, 
I  feel  that  even  if  I  had  ten  children,  D.  would  still 
want  me  to  play  tennis  and  ride  with  him.  And 
how  are  tennis,  dancing,  riding  more  "life"  than 
writing? 

While  we  were  in  Brassey's  Mungo  came  in.  He 
was  by  himself,  quite  clearly  not  meeting  any  one, 
and  was  just  making  for  the  only  vacant  table  with 
his  queer  stooping  walk  when  he  caught  sight  of 
us.  He  then  immediately  made  an  elaborate  pre- 
tense, not  only  that  he  had  not  seen  us  but  that 
he  was  looking  for  some  one  he  expected  to  be  there, 


The  Camomile  263 

passing  his  eye  over  each  of  the  other  tables  ex- 
cept the  vacant  one,  and  finally  retreating  with  a 
vaguely  disappointed  air  from  the  shop.  Dear  old 
Mungo!  I  suppose  that  is  his  way  of  showing  deli- 
cacy! I  wanted  to  rush  out,  seize  him  by  the  arm 
and  make  him  join  us,  but  I  know  he  really  doesn't 
much  like  Duncan.  Duncan  swears  he  is  in  love 
with  me,  but  this  is  nonsense.  He  is  just  a  bit  vexed 
that  his  beloved  Ronald's  sister  is  engaged  to  a  man 
he  doesn't  take  to.  I  had  forgotten  Mungo  when 
I  said  that  Nelly  was  the  only  person  not  falling 
over  herself  with  congratulations. 

September  lo.  Madge's  wedding  to-day.  She 
looked  ever  so  sweet  and  happy,  and  all  was  well, 
but  somehow  the  ceremony  depressed  me,  or  rather 
struck  me  as  vulgar.  There  was  a  little  dance  aft- 
erwards, but  by  eleven  I  felt  so  tired  that  I  slipped 
off  home  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one.  Aunt 
H.  had  gone  to  bed.  I  threw  myself  into  the  big 
arm-chair  in  the  dining-room,  almost  too  tired  to 
undress.  I  could  hardly  bear  the  sight  of  a  pile  of 
my  unanswered  letters  (all  duty  ones — congratula- 
tions and  presents)  on  the  writing-table.  Deep  sunk 
in  meditation  when  D.  turned  up,  having  missed  me 
and  followed  me  home.  We  had  one  of  those 


264  The  Camomile 

strange  talks  in  which  I  keep  trying  to  be  clear  and 
honest  with  him,  but  in  which  he  seems  as  if  he 
would  prefer  me  to  be  otherwise.  Then  I  gave  it 
up,  sat  on  his  knee,  and  we  ended  as  usual.  I  was 
almost  fainting  with  exhaustion  when  he  left  at 
two  A.M. 

September  11.  A  queer,  dark,  foggy,  oppressive 
day. 

Is  this  indeed  a  part  of  love — this  strain  and 
effort  to  be  what  the  loved  one  wants,  or  at  any 
rate  not  to  appear  different  from  his  ideal?  It  is 
a  kind  of  discipline,  and  so  may  have  some  good  in 
it.  All  the  same  there  is  something  wrong  some- 
where, I'm  sure,  if  it  makes  itself  too  much  felt. 

Last  night  in  bed  (in  spite  of  being  so  tired)  I 
thought  of  a  wonderful  idea  for  a  short  story.  I'm 
convinced  it  is  the  best  I  have  had  yet,  and  I  lay 
awake,  first  thinking  out  the  detail,  then  sleepless 
with  sheer  dread  that  I  might  die  before  getting 
it  written.  I  heard  the  University  clock  strike  every 
hour  till  the  five  minutes  bell  began  clanging  for  the 
eight  o'clock  classes. 

September  12.  What  would  D.  say  if  I  would 
only  marry  him  at  New  Year  on  condition  that  we 


The  Camomile  265 

should  be  lovers  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word  be- 
fore he  goes?  I  can  see  his  face — a  mixture  of 
woodenness  and  horror — at  the  mad  question  which 
of  course  will  never  be  asked!  Yet  my  Puritanism 
does  revolt  against  what  seems  the  ordinary  course 
of  an  engagement.  I  should  feel  it  far  less  dis- 
orderly, both  morally  and  mentally,  for  us  to  be  liv- 
ing together  without  any  last  reserves.  It  is  these 
last  reserves  that  are  the  devil!  How  is  it  that 
he  doesn't  see  it?  I  certainly  feel  quite  as  much 
bound  to  him  as  if  we  had  discarded  everything. 

But  have  I  "the  love  a  wife  ought  to  have  for 
her  husband"?  Does  he  in  his  heart  want  me  to 
give  myself — my  real,  natural  self — to  him?  Can 
I  give  him  what  he  wants  of  me,  even  if  I  am  will- 
ing to  maim  and  bind  myself  and  cut  off  half  of 
myself  to  please  him?  Have  I  the  right  to  go  on 
trying  to  alter  myself  just  because  he  attracts  me, 
and  because  he  asks  it  of  me?  Will  it  not  some- 
how in  the  end  hurt  him  more  than  me  if  I  per- 
sist? 

Later.  To  be  simply  honest,  simply  decent — what 
courage  that  takes  at  times! 

Later.    D.  says  a  husband  makes  his  wife's  world 


266  The  Camomile 

.  .  .  that  she  gets  to  like  his  friends  better  than 
her  own.  This  may  be  true.  But  I  don't  want  to 
like  people  like  Mrs.  B.  He  says  she  is  "very  de- 
cent when  you  have  to  live  with  her."  But  fancy 
choosing  to  live  with  her!  (He  has  admitted  she  is 
fairly  typical  of  the  station.)  He  says  one  does  not 
choose  such  things  in  life.  But  why  not?  Surely 
some  people  do?  Of  course  one  may  choose  not 
to  choose,  as  men  do  when  they  go  into  the  army, 
the  navy,  the  priesthood  ...  as  women  do  when 
they  marry  men  whose  minds  are  made  up?  ... 

September  13.  D.  goes  to-morrow.  I  can  hardly 
bear  it.  To-day  he  hired  a  car  and  I  got  together 
a  picnic,  and  he  drove  me  down  to  Loch  Lomond 
— just  our  two  selves,  not  even  a  chauffeur.  It 
was  a  glorious  hot  day  and  we  camped  by  the  edge 
of  the  water  where  it  was  half  grass  and  half 
gravel,  with  a  little  copse  of  silver  birches  running 
right  to  the  loch's  edge.  We  both  paddled  out  up 
to  our  knees,  and  afterwards  lay  in  the  sun  and 
dried  ourselves.  He  looks  his  best  in  the  country 
and  when  he  is  sun-burned.  I  love  all  the  photo- 
graphs he  has  shown  me  of  himself  in  India.  He 
looks  such  a  jolly,  hearty  sort  of  man.  There  under 
the  trees  with  his  bare  legs,  eating  sandwiches  and 


The  Camomile  267 

gazing  lovingly  at  me,  he  was  beautifully  manly 
and  so  simple  that  I  adored  him  and  felt  at  peace. 
Only  when  he  began  talking  of  how  dreadfully  long 
the  time  of  our  separation  was  going  to  seem  to  him, 
all  my  blood  rose  in  my  throat  as  if  to  choke  me. 
I  felt  such  furious  anger  against  him  that  I  had  to 
cram  nearly  a  whole  hard-boiled  egg  into  my  mouth 
at  once  to  prevent  myself  from  crying  out,  "Isn't 
it  your  own  doing?"  and  so  open  up  the  vain  dis- 
cussion. I  turned  my  head  away  so  that  he 
shouldn't  see  how  unbecomingly  full  my  mouth  was, 
but  one  tear  after  another  began  running  down  my 
face,  and  as  his  hand  was  in  my  lap  one  tear  fell  on 
the  back  of  it,  and  he  looked  and  saw  I  was  crying. 
How  could  he  know  they  were  tears  of  pure  anger? 
When  he  hugged  me  I  just  let  him  think  they  were 
from  sorrow.  Perhaps  it  was  cowardly,  but  I 
couldn't  bear  to  spoil  our  last  day. 

It  was  late  when  we  packed  up  to  go  home. 
There  was  a  greenish  sky,  like  some  fabulous  liquor 
that,  if  you  could  drink  a  great  draught  of  it,  would 
make  you  live  forever,  and  the  long  curving  clouds, 
inclosing  it  into  many  lakes,  were  dark  dove  color, 
and  little  silver  stars  began  swimming  in  swift, 
straight  routes  across  the  lakes  of  lucent  green. 
From  one  dove-colored  shore  to  another  they  passed 


268  The  Camomile 

intent,  like  homing  bees  that  had  stayed  too  late 
away  from  their  hives  and  feared  the  overtaking  of 
the  darkness.  Up  there,  there  must  have  been  a 
wind,  but  in  our  copse  it  was  perfectly  still.  We 
did  not  speak  at  all,  but  sat  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  and  gradually  every  thought  died  out  of  me 
till  I  was  empty  as  a  shell,  but  like  a  shell  vibrat- 
ing to  the  faint  and  marvelous  humming  of  the 
living  universe.  It  is  only  now  I  come  to  write  of 
it  that  I  know  what  were  the  colors  of  the  sky, 
and  that  the  stars  seemed  like  bees  in  their  straight, 
unerring  flight.  If  I  were  capable  at  one  and  the 
same  moment  of  conscious,  observing  sight,  and  of 
the  emotion  aroused  by  such  a  spectacle  as  the  sky 
at  sunset,  I  do  not  think  I  should  go  on  living. 
It  would  be  too  intense  a  condition  for  the  frame 
of  my  flesh  to  endure.  There  have  been  moments — 
rare  and  soon  over — when  my  emotions  and  my  rea- 
soning faculties  have  both  been  wide  awake  at  once. 
But  at  such  times  I  have  been  nearly  shattered  by 
the  richness  of  existence. 

The  drive  home  in  the  dark  was  heavenly.  D. 
kept  his  left  arm  round  me  as  long  as  we  were 
in  the  country,  and  I  felt  I  didn't  care  if  we  ran 
over  a  precipice  and  were  smashed  into  smither- 
eens. Even  that  would  have  seemed  bliss  in  that 


The  Camomile  269 

exalted  moment.  All  the  same  I  knew  well  enough 
that  D.  was  perfectly  sure  of  his  driving  or  he 
would  not  have  risked  using  only  one  hand.  It 
was  just  a  lovable  little  bit  of  showing  off  to  im- 
press me;  which  it  did.  When  we  got  among  the 
traffic  again  he  took  his  arm  away. 

Later.  D.  says  the  B.'s  were  "greatly  impressed" 
with  me!  They  spoke  about  me  to  some  one  who 
mentioned  it  in  a  letter  to  D.  I  can  see  that  D. 
is  gratified.  The  absurd  thing  is  that  so  am  I! 

September  14.  I  could  cry  and  cry.  Duncan 
went  this  morning. 

Later.  We  only  had  a  hurried,  scrappy  good-bye 
(not  even  "distasted  with  the  salt  of  broken  tears" 
— How  marvelous,  that  use  of  that  adjective 
"broken"!  How  it  betrays  not  only  Shakespeare's 
genius,  but  his  own  experience  of  love!)  We  were 
by  ourselves  scarcely  more  than  five  minutes.  Just 
as  well  perhaps.  Everything  that  could  be  said 
(how  little!)  was  said  yesterday,  so  however  long 
it  had  lasted  we  could  only  have  dragged  out  the 
misery  of  parting.  D.  was  still  quite  sunburned 
from  yesterday.  And  my  forearms  have  each  a 
bright  scarlet  patch,  quite  painful  when  he  kissed 


270  The  Camomile 

them  again  and  again,  saying  he  would  never  for- 
get last  night  by  the  edge  of  the  loch.  I  am  to 
write  to  him  and  he  to  me  every  day. 

Everything  at  home  seems  echoing  and  empty. 
I  can't  read  or  anything  and  almost  wish  I  had 
to  give  a  lesson  to  keep  my  thoughts  from  turning 
round  and  round  in  the  same  fruitless  circle.  I  hate 
a  waste  of  energy  and  emotion.  If  it  could  not  be 
helped,  I  should  at  least  not  feel  such  resentment. 
But  it  is  so  stupid  that  I  am  left  here  behind  .  .  . 
such  a  sin  against  nature  and  common  sense.  I 
could  cry  and  cry.  I  did  cry  a  good  deal  in  the 
afternoon,  but  ended  by  being  angry  again.  Bother 
everything! 

September  15.  Sunday.  Very  tired,  sleepy  and 
nervous  after  a  bad  night.  Refused  to  go  to  church, 
and  while  Aunt  H.  was  there  took  down  the  crystal 
chandelier,  washed  all  the  dangles  and  put  them 
back.  A  long  and  tiring  job,  especially  having  to 
hold  one's  arms  up  for  such  a  time.  But  had  to 
do  something.  Aunt  H.,  who  came  back  before  I 
was  finished,  was  angry  at  first,  but  suddenly,  after 
a  look  at  my  face,  became  quite  mild. 

September  16.    Felt  gloomy  and  wretched.     It 


The  Camomile  271 

was  a  positive  relief  when  Aunt  H.  came  and  asked 
me  to  type  a  lot  of  post-cards  for  the  prayer  meeting 
next  Friday.  So  passed  the  morning.  In  the  aft- 
ernoon the  day  turned  very  dark  and  then  it  rained. 
I  tidied  all  my  drawers  and  wardrobe. 

Sunday,  September  22.  A  dreary  week.  How  on 
earth  am  I  to  pass  the  time  between  now  and  Janu- 
ary, with  Ronald  gone  and  all?  It's  very  fine  for 
Duncan  with  his  work,  but  he  has  taken  mine  away 
from  me!  I  shall  look  up  Miss  Hepburn  and  Don 
John.  If  no  one  answers  the  door  I'll  get  in  by 
a  window. 

September  24.  Since  D.  left,  I  have  written  as 
I  promised,  a  letter  every  day.  I  don't  find  much 
to  say,  though,  and  the  question  is  always  cropping 
up — Why  have  I  to  write  at  all  to  him?  Why  are 
we  separated?  Perhaps  when  I  hear  of  his  arrival 
it  will  be  easier.  He  will  have  lots  to  tell  me  about, 
even  on  the  voyage.  Oh,  how  I  envy  him  being  on 
the  sea  just  now,  seeing  new  people  and  everything! 

September  25.  D.'s  first  letter  this  morning  from 
Marseilles.  Naturally  nothing  much  in  it.  He  has 
bought  me  a  pink  embroidered  kimono  which  should 


272  The  Camomile 

arrive  soon.    Pearls,  kimonos  ...  all  these  things 
instead  of  taking  me  with  him! 

September  27.  Aunt  H.'s  Tea-and-Prayer  Meet- 
ing. We  had  limelight  views  (something  very  spe- 
cial, not  at  home  but  in  the  Burgh  Hall)  of  mis- 
sionary work  in  Patagonia.  There  is  a  place  to  live 
in!  The  missionary  himself  was  so  enthusiastic 
about  the  climate  and  the  people  and  everything, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  understand  the  need  for 
any  one  to  go  trying  to  alter  the  ways  of  life  out 
there!  Pink  kimono  arrived.  Very  pretty  and 
suits  me. 

October  5.  First  letter  about  voyage  from  Dun- 
can, posted  at  Port  Said.  He  tells  me  less  of  him- 
self in  it  than  of  the  people  on  the  boat,  and  I 
don't  find  them  interesting  as  I  should  if  I  were 
with  him.  His  descriptions — "very  decent  fellow," 
"pleasant  girls,"  "amusing  chap" — don't  give  me 
much  to  go  upon.  He  says  no  one  has  succeeded 
once  in  driving  me  out  of  his  thoughts  for  even 
a  moment.  I  hope  not!  Yet  when  he  tells  me  of 
a  very  pretty  girl  on  board  who  shows  a  "friendly 
disposition"  toward  him,  I  feel  he  does  it  to  see  if 
he  cannot  make  me  feel  a  little  jealous.  Perhaps 


The  Camomile  273 

he  has  succeeded.     I'm  not  sure.    I  wish  his  way 
of  writing  did  not  make  me  so  critical  of  him. 

Sunday,  October  13.    An  unforgetable  day. 

Will  any  one  ever  be  able  to  explain  why  on  some 
days,  though  one  may  feel  quite  cheerful  and  even 
happy,  one  sees  a  world  without  any  magic  in  its 
outlines  and  colors?  With  me,  when  such  days  have 
followed  one  another  in  a  fairly  long  succession — 
say,  for  a  week  on  end — I  begin  to  wonder  if  this 
may  not  be  the  true  and  normal  vision  of  life.  It 
isn't  so  bad  .  .  .  not  deplorable  at  all,  and  I  am 
almost  prepared  to  accept  it  and  to  condemn  any 
other  vision  as  highly  colored,  sentimental  or  false. 
Then  one  morning  I  wake,  and  opening  my  eyes  I 
see  the  light  coming  through  the  blind  and  falling 
quietly  on  the  bed,  or  I  notice  a  bubble  of  light 
quivering  on  the  ceiling,  and  it  is  as  if  at  that  mo- 
ment I  saw  light  for  the  first  time.  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  been  allowed  to  sit  beside  God  while  he  ut- 
tered the  words,  "Let  there  be  light,"  and  I  am  over- 
whelmed by  the  majesty  and  mystery  of  everything. 
After  lying  still  a  while,  adjusting  myself  with  joyous 
caution  to  the  pressure  of  emotion  that  threatens  my 
very  identity,  I  get  out  of  bed  and  pull  up  the  blind. 
Again  the  walls  of  my  being  are  almost  shattered 


274  The  Camomile 

by  whatever  first  meets  my  sight.  It  may  be  some- 
thing admittedly  beautiful  like  budding  trees  or 
grass  or  the  blue  sky  and  sunshine.  But  it  may 
just  as  well  be  a  dull  sky  and  a  grimy  back  garden 
wall — the  marvel  of  life  strikes  no  less  powerfully 
at  me.  It  isn't  that  I  think  the  grimy  wall  as  beau- 
tiful as  a  budding  tree,  but  at  the  moment  it  con- 
veys the  mystery  equally  well,  so  that  my  being  is 
flooded  with  worship.  I  suppose  it  would  be  the 
same  on  such  mornings  if  I  were  to  wake  in  a  cell 
out  of  which  I  could  not  see  at  all.  The  clamorous 
voice  would  reach  me  through  the  very  stones  and 
plaster,  the  floor  and  ceiling,  each  held  in  its  place 
by  the  force  of  gravitation  and  a  hundred  other 
marvelous  laws.  Sometimes  I  wonder  could  I  en- 
dure it  if  a  scene  of  tremendous  and  famous  beauty 
— say,  the  Bay  of  Naples — were  at  such  a  moment 
to  lie  stretched  before  me!  Would  not  my  being 
then  fly  upward  like  a  tiny  smoke-wreath  from  some 
altar  fire? 

And  such  days  do  not  come  only  when  there  is 
physical  well-being.  I  have  known  them  come  when 
I  felt  tired  and  neuralgic  quite  as  surely  as  when 
I  stretched  myself  in  perfection  of  bodily  health. 
They  may  of  course  have  physical  causes,  but  are 
not  these  causes  as  mysterious  as  the  result?  Some- 


The  Camomile  275 

times  in  the  middle  of  a  day  it  will  come  upon  me 
suddenly.  I  cannot  understand  or  explain  it.  I 
can  only  say  that  when  it  comes  it  simplifies  every- 
thing, and  I  know  that  I  am  then  nearer  to  reality, 
more  normal,  less  apt  to  be  misled  and  carried  away 
into  mistakes,  than  during  the  days  when  there  is 
no  magic. 

To-day  has  been  magical  from  the  moment  I  woke. 
As  I  dressed  I  felt  an  exquisite  fire  running  in  my 
veins,  and  during  breakfast  I  had  to  hold  myself 
carefully  and  quietly  in  case  I  should  fly  to  pieces 
from  the  sheer  extremity  of  my  aliveness  to  every- 
thing. The  bread  and  butter  and  bacon  were  beau- 
tiful in  themselves  and  were  symbols  of  a  greater 
beauty — of  all  the  corn  and  oil  and  wine  of  human 
life,  the  salt,  the  herds  of  beasts  used  by  mankind 
in  the  world  through  the  ages.  The  tea  poured  into 
Ronald's  old  nursery  mug  showed  me  all  his  child- 
hood and  mine  as  if  in  a  single  bright  drop  of  crys- 
tal water,  and  I  saw  that  he  and  I  had  our  places 
and  our  histories  hi  the  world  along  with  all  the 
other  men  and  women  that  had  ever  lived.  Tears 
rushed  like  a  fountain  from  my  heart,  but  none  to 
my  wondering  eyes,  as  that  would  have  broken 
and  dissolved  the  vision. 

After  breakfast  I  could  settle  to  nothing,  could 


276  The  Camomile 

only  wander  about  gazing  at  everything  and  touch- 
ing things  here  and  there  as  if  I  had  never  seen 
them  before,  till  I  began  to  feel  a  little  light-headed. 
So  I  put  on  my  hat  and  went  round  to  see  if  I 
could  not  get  hold  of  Miss  Hepburn,  which  after 
all  I  had  not  done  since  Duncan  left.  It  is  neces- 
sary at  such  times,  I  find,  to  tether  myself  by  do- 
ing some  definite,  and  if  possible,  useful  action  such 
as  tidying  up  all  my  drawers.  When  I  got  to  the 
house  the  blinds  in  front  were  down  as  usual,  but 
I  rang  only  once  before  the  door  was  opened  by  old 
Mr.  Hepburn  who  at  once  asked  me  to  come  in,  and 
then  in  the  little  dark  entrance  hall,  before  I  could 
ask  a  question,  he  said  in  a  perfectly  quiet  voice, 
"She's  gone." 

I  answered  with  equal  quietness:  "Gone,  Mr.  Hep- 
burn! Is  she  dead?"  To  which  he  replied:  "No, 
she's  pit  awa'.  They've  ta'en  her  tae  Woodilee." 

"To  Woodilee?"  I  asked.  For  the  moment  I 'did 
not  grasp  the  significance  of  the  name. 

"Aye,  tae  the  asylum.  .  .  .  It's  better  so.  I've 
niwer  had  any  comfort.  Ill  tae  live  wi',  she  was, 
puir  buddy.  It  was  aye  the  same.  .  .  .  Her  mother 
— I'd  a  heap  o'  trouble  wi'  her.  A  heart-breaking 
time  .  .  .  the  change  o'  life,  ye  understand — I'd  no 


TKe  Camomile  &77 

peace  till  they  pit  her  awa' — but  I  shouldna'  talk — 
ye're  a  young  woman.  Ye'll  excuse  me." 

He  went  on  to  tell  me  how,  ever  since  that  sup- 
per party  she  had  given  for  me  and  for  him,  she 
had  thought  they  should  neither  eat  nor  drink  any 
more,  as  eating  or  drinking  more  would  be  a  dese- 
cration of  that  occasion.  She  did  not  allow  him,  he 
said,  to  eat  what  remained  of  the  feast,  and  three 
times  she  made  soup  of  the  chicken  bones,  using 
every  scrap  off  the  plates.  This  she  declared  was, 
as  it  were,  a  rinsing  of  the  holy  chalice  with  water, 
as  they  do  in  the  Church  of  Rome,  drinking  the 
three  rinsing  waters  so  that  not  one  tiniest  drop  of 
the  sacramental  wine  should  be  thrown  away.  But 
of  course  the  last  boiling  was  hardly  soup  at  all, 
and  after  that,  any  food  he  brought  in  she  burned  on 
the  fire  as  an  oblation,  so  he  had  got  nothing  but 
what  he  ate  outside  or  in  the  office,  while  she  sat 
at  home  smiling  happily  but  growing  every  day 
thinner  and  weaker. 

It  was  impossible  to  offer  him  sympathy  as  he 
seemed  quite  happy  and  relieved  about  the  turn 
things  had  taken,  now  and  then  pulling  out  his  lit- 
tle green  bottle  of  smelling-salts  and  sniffing  at  them 
with  his  small,  sharp,  waxy  nose.  So  after  talking 
a  few  minutes  longer  and  saying  I  would  visit  his 


278  The  Camomile 

daughter  at  Woodilee  any  time  he  thought  wise,  I 
shook  hands  and  went  away. 

Out  in  the  street  I  wondered  what  I  should  do 
next,  and  began  vaguely  walking  westward  along 
the  ridge  of  the  gray,  stony  hill  with  high  black 
houses  on  either  side.  Here  again  I  seemed  to  see 
the  stones  and  houses  and  lamp-posts  for  the  first 
time — no,  rather,  as  if  I  had  been  long  dead  in  the 
grave,  had  come  to  life  again,  and  these  stones, 
houses  and  lamp-posts,  full  of  passionate  memories, 
were  the  first  things  to  meet  my  restored  sight. 
There  was  at  once  a  freshness  and  a  familiarity 
hi  merely  looking  at  them  which  was  deeply  moving 
and  exciting.  "Am  I  too  going  mad?"  I  asked  my- 
self. But  not  in  any  real  anxiety.  For  I  knew  that 
I  was  perfectly  sane,  and  that  it  was  only  the 
rarity  of  such  naked  glimpses  of  reality  that  made 
me  feel  strange. 

Glasgow  is  a  curious  place.  Sometimes  for  weeks 
at  a  time  you  seem  never  to  see  more  than  a  strip  of 
unimportant  sky  between  the  high  dark  buildings. 
Then  one  day  you  find  yourself  on  the  summit  of  a 
hill  like  Cathedral  Street,  and  there  you  are,  sud- 
denly aloft  as  on  a  stone  cairn  with  nothing  round 
you  but  leagues  and  leagues  of  gray  sky.  When  I 
had  been  walking  a  few  minutes  I  found  myself  so 


The  Camomile  279 

to-day.  Then  just  as  I  was  standing  looking  round 
me  and  drawing  a  deep  breath,  there  was  Don  John 
on  the  opposite  pavement.  He  was  not  looking  at 
the  sky,  but  on  the  ground,  pacing  along  slowly  like 
a  monk  in  a  cloister,  and  did  not  see  me  till  I  ran 
across  and  took  hold  of  his  coat.  We  walked  on 
together  till  we  came  to  a  seat  where  we  sat  down 
and  talked  for  more  than  an  hour.  I  told  him  all 
about  Duncan,  and  he  spoke  both  prudently  and 
well  about  my  engagement  and  about  many  things. 
D.  J.  may  have  given  up  all  that  makes  life  sweet 
and  easy  and  successful,  but  he  has  got  the  seeing 
eye  in  exchange. 

Memo,  of  some  of  the  things  D.  J.  said  to-day: 
Importance  of  being  able  to  differentiate  in  time  be- 
tween circumstances  which  will  right  themselves  and 
so  may  be  let  alone  and  may  easily  be  endured,  and 
circumstances  which  one  must,  oneself,  take  in  hand 
and  change  without  delay,  with  violence  if  neces- 
sary. .  .  .  Equal  importance  of  remembering,  and 
never  missing  out  of  one's  reckonings  the  circum- 
stances which  cannot  and  never  will  be  altered  dur- 
ing one's  lifetime  .  .  .  Most  disastrous  mistake  of 
all,  to  flatter  oneself  into  thinking  that  because  the 
alteration  of  such  circumstances  would  be  highly 
convenient  and  pleasant  to  oneself,  somehow  there 


280  The  Camomile 

will  come  the  desired  alteration.  Such  a  belief  may 
give  courage,  but  it  is  apt  to  be  a  momentary 
courage  only,  and  even  if  it  should  endure,  being  a 
courage  founded  on  a  lie  it  will  somewhere  do  an 
injury,  the  worse  for  being  unconscious.  (I  sup- 
pose he  means  that  circumstances  of  the  unalterable 
kind  are  chiefly  temperamental,  temperament  being 
more  utterly  fatal — i.e.,  not  subject  to  free  will— 
than  the  more  external  circumstances  which  mere 
courage  and  faith  may  shatter.  "Faith,"  says  D.  J., 
"will  certainly  remove  certain  mountains.  But  there 
are  mountains  that  are  irremovable  by  faith,  and 
it  is  a  great  thing  to  distinguish  the  one  kind  from 
the  other." 

He  never  once  talked  at  me,  but  since  I  left  him 
I  have  been  applying  all  he  said  to  myself  and 
Duncan. 

October  26.  To  be  a  perfectly  womanly  woman — 
how  I  should  like  that!  I'm  not  quite  sure  what 
a  womanly  woman  is,  but  I  know  at  least  some  of 
the  things  that  make  one  unwomanly.  Some  are 
quite  simple,  such  as  inattention  to  one's  person  and 
appearance,  an  excessive  preoccupation  with  intel- 
lectual matters,  a  too  critical  attitude,  a  lack  of 
domestic  gifts,  a  desire  to  fight  for  oneself,  or  to 


The  Camomile  281 

be  regarded — at  times  anyhow — not  essentially  as  a 
woman  but  as  a  human  being.  But  these  are  all 
things  that  can  be  held  in  check  simply  by  making 
an  effort.  I  want  to  go  much  farther  than  that — 
farther,  I  suspect,  than  modern  middle-class  life  will 
let  me !  I  should  like  to  be  the  chosen  love  of  some 
great  warrior  or  statesman  or  artist  of  genius  who 
would  know  how  to  give  a  woman  her  place  hi  his 
life  and  how  to  keep  her  in  that  place.  Then  I 
should  use  all  the  brains  and  energy  I  had  in  making 
myself  beautiful  and  forever  interesting  and  de- 
sirable in  his  sight.  I  could  sit  for  hours  on  end 
brushing  and  braiding  my  hair,  scenting  and  array- 
ing myself,  never  reading  in  a  human  book,  but 
gazing  at  the  sunlight  and  the  trees  and  waters, 
and  weaving  my  own  thoughts  into  tales  for  my  be- 
loved which  he  would  say  confounded  the  wisdom 
of  sages  in  their  depth  and  simplicity.  Yet  as  well 
I  should  learn  of  the  wisdom  of  the  sages  from  my 
master,  whispered  between  his  kisses,  and  through 
him  alone  I  should  know  of  the  world  of  men,  just 
as  he  through  me  would  know  of  the  earth,  stars  and 
flowers.  Of  the  love  between  men  and  women  there 
would  be  nothing  I  did  not  know.  Also  I  should  be 
skilled  in  charms  for  sleeplessness  and  all  anxieties 
and  illness.  Joyfully  I  would  bear  and  suckle  many 


282  The  Camomile 

children,  growing  fat  and  comely  as  I  became  older, 
a  mother  and  comforter  to  all  the  men  that  came 
my  way,  one  to  whom  they  would  run  like  children 
with  their  troubles,  asking  me  for  counsel  gained 
direct  from  life  and  the  quiet  untaught  thoughts  of 
my  own  heart.  Then  when  I  was  very  old — a 
shrunken  little  clove  of  a  woman  or  a  lumbering, 
ancient  female,  wise  as  a  serpent — I'd  sit  over  the 
fire,  smoking  an  old  pipe,  reading  the  hearts  of 
my  grand-children  and  dreaming  of  my  own  rich 
life. 

But  for  such  an  existence  not  merely  the  women 
but  the  men  are  needed  and  a  revolution  of  the  whole 
social  framework.  If  men  would  passionately  insist 
— not  merely  fretfully  exclaim — that  women  should 
be  "kept  in  their  place";  if  all  men  were  individ- 
ually male  and  creative,  it  could  be  done.  But  the 
men  as  much  as  the  women  want  to  eat  their  cake 
and  have  it.  The  woman  must  remain  womanly,  yet 
she  must  also  be  this  and  that  and  the  other,  all 
incompatible  with  the  essence  of  womanliness,  which 
is  surely  leisure.  Like  the  girl  in  Meredith's  poem — 

"She  must  flourish  staff  and  pen 
And  touch  with  thrilling  fingers, 
She  must  talk  the  talk  of  men 
And  deal  a  wound  that  lingers." 


The  Camomile  283 

— which  sounds  very  jolly,  but  is  really  rot — that 
is  to  say,  Nature  doesn't  work  that  way,  so  will  be 
sure  to  revenge  herself  on  the  woman  that  tries  it. 
Can't  I  see  the  poor  girl,  goaded  on  by  Meredith, 
trying  to  live  up  to  this  and  getting  thin  and  stringy 
about  the  neck  with  the  effort  to  keep  going?  And 
can't  I  hear  the  sighs  of  relief  with  which,  when 
she  left  the  smoking-room,  the  men  would  lie  back 
sucking  at  their  pipes  and  begin  to  talk  "the  talk 
of  men"  at  its  most  Rabelaisian? 

We  are  all  tarred  with  the  same  brush  to-day. 
What,  for  instance,  does  Duncan  want  of  me  as 
his  wife?  He  wants  me  to  be  womanly,  but  not  to 
go  too  far  even  in  that  direction;  likes  me  to  be 
what  he  calls  "au  fait"  with  books  and  questions 
of  the  day,  but  always  to  skim  the  surface  lightly; 
hopes  I  shall  be  a  good  housewife  and  mother, 
but  without  being  too  much  taken  up  with  domestic 
details,  as  this  "makes  many  married  women  such 
frightful  bores."  Somehow  one  feels  one  is  be- 
ing made  into  a  kind  of  shop-window  that  the  ad- 
miring world  may  be  shown  what  a  modern  woman 
can  be  like,  until  hi  time  what  one  really  is  is  quite 
lost  sight  of,  even  by  oneself. 

October  29.   Aunt  H.  took  me  to  call  on  Mungo's 


284  The  Camomile 

mother,  and  both  his  sisters  (older  than  he)  were 
at  home.  They  are  very  quiet,  modest,  gentle  peo- 
ple who  profess  to  admire  every  one  else  tremen- 
dously. And  perhaps  they  really  do,  though  not,  I 
think,  quite  so  much  as  they  profess,  the  truth  being 
that  they  have  very  little  life  in  themselves  and 
seem  to  gain  for  the  moment  some  of  the  vitality 
of  those  they  praise,  besides  attracting  the  praised 
persons  to  come  about  them.  Still,  even  this  shows 
they  must  have  rather  sweet  natures,  for  so  many 
others,  lacking  life,  grow  bitter-tongued.  Aunt  H. 
does  not  like  paying  calls  as  a  rule,  but  she  enjoys 
visiting  the  Flemings.  On  our  way  home  she  said: 
"I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Ellen,  but  somehow  these 
people  draw  me  out  and  make  me  talk."  And  talk 
she  certainly  did!  So  did  I,  I  may  say.  They 
seemed  so  desperately  anxious  to  hear  about  every 
detail  of  the  trousseau  and  the  wedding  and  every- 
thing connected  with  me,  and  they  made  any  kind 
of  doubt  or  dissatisfaction  seem  so  impossible,  that 
I  rose  to  the  occasion  and  for  the  moment  really 
felt  like  the  nice  uncritical  girl  they  imagined  me. 
While  we  were  there,  Dr.  Sturrock  and  his  wife 
came  in  and  the  subject  turned  on  "speaking  out." 
How  far  can  one  justifiably  go  in  withholding  one's 
opinion  in  company  without  becoming  a  hypocrite? 


The  Camomile  285 

Some  funny  things  were  said,  especially  by  the 
younger  and  more  timid  Miss  Fleming,  who  seemed 
so  overwhelmed  by  this  intellectual  conversation  with 
Dr.  Sturrock  taking  place  in  her  own  drawing-room 
that  she  tried  to  agree  with  every  one  at  the  same 
time.  Dr.  S.  does  not  approve  of  running  against 
people's  prejudices  if  you  can  avoid  it;  for  once 
you  do  that,  he  says,  they  are  in  arms  against  you, 
and  you  will  talk  in  vain  afterwards,  even  about 
quite  different  matters.  That  is  to  say,  you  lose  your 
influence,  which  he  thinks  is  a  pity.  Here,  to  my 
great  surprise,  his  wife,  whom  I  have  always  thought 
a  dull  little  woman,  chipped  in  rather  timidly,  say- 
ing that  she  on  the  contrary  thought  the  people  with 
it  in  them  ought,  in  duty  bound,  to  come  out  strong 
with  their  opinions  "for  the  sake  of  the  little  people," 
like  herself.  For,  she  argued,  her  face  turning  red 
and  her  eyes  quite  dancing  suddenly,  there  are  so 
many  people  who  disagree  in  their  hearts  with  what 
is  being  said,  but  never  dare — or  perhaps  it  never 
occurs  to  them — to  express  their  disagreement,  be- 
cause they  think  they  are  alone  against  the  great 
world.  But  when  some  accredited  person  says  out 
the  very  thing  they  are  secretly  feeling,  they  give  a 
tremendous  cheer  and  are  braver  ever  afterwards 
and  less  alone.  I  see  I  have  misjudged  Mrs.  S.  com- 


286  The  Camomile 

pletely  up  till  now.    I  squeezed  her  hand  very  hard 
when  we  said  good-bye. 

November  2.  To-day  I  went  to  see  Laura,  found 
her  alone,  and  had — for  us  two  nowadays — quite  a 
long  talk.  Most  of  the  other  times  I  have  gone,  her 
husband  has  been  there,  and  though  I  don't  mind 
Wilfred,  there  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  be- 
tween him  and  Laura  that  paralyzes  me.  She  al- 
most never  addresses  him  but  with  an  endearment — 
"dear,"  "dearest,"  "darling" — and  he  the  same  with 
her,  but  I  can't  help  noticing  that  it  is  when  she  is 
most  vexed  in  her  soul  with  him  that  she  uses  the 
superlative  "darling!"  She  is  very  polite  to  him 
and  even  affectionate,  but  in  all  she  says  and  does 
there's  a  terrible  suppressed  reproach.  She  is  con- 
scious of  every  movement  he  makes,  every  expression 
that  crosses  his  face.  When  he  is  depressed  (as 
he  often  seems  to  me  now)  she  gets  hatefully  cheer- 
ful, watching  him  all  the  while  out  of  the  corners 
of  her  eyes,  and  when  he  forgets  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  begins  to  laugh  and  chat  in  his  natural 
rather  fatuous  but  good-natured  way,  her  face 
freezes  under  her  smiling.  They  say  hate  is  akin 
to  love.  Perhaps  this  emotion  he  clearly  inspires 
in  her  is  a  kind  of  love,  or  will  turn  at  length  into 


The  Camomile  287 

love.    It  certainly  makes  a  third  person  want  to 
escape  from  them. 

To-day  she  was  sitting  sewing  for  the  baby  that 
is  expected  in  February.  All  the  strain  which  has 
spoiled  our  talks  for  so  long  seemed  to  have  gone. 
She  was  at  ease  and  ready  to  laugh.  It  was  al- 
most as  if  we  were  back  at  school  again.  We  talked 
about  Madge  and  her  marriage,  and  a  little,  though 
not  so  much,  about  Duncan  and  me.  It  is  queer  to 
think  that  by  next  year  all  three  of  us  will  be  mar- 
ried women!  Madge  has  confided  in  Laura  that 
she  hopes  to  have  a  baby  just  as  soon  as  she  pos- 
sibly can  after  the  wedding.  Laura  herself  was 
fearfully  disappointed  when  the  first  month  or  two 
passed  with  her  and  there  was  no  sign  of  anything. 
She  thought  she  was  going  to  be  childless!  And 
yet  the  newspapers  are  always  saying  that  the  yimng 
people  of  to-day  do  not  want  to  have  children! 
Certainly  Laura  looked  happier  this  afternoon  than 
she  has  done  for  years.  Very  beautiful,  too.  Every- 
things  seems  to  bring  out  a  new  beauty  in  her. 
Though  she  is  huge,  she  looks  like  something  to  wor- 
ship, and  moves  with  a  lovely  swaying,  generous 
movement  from  side  to  side  as  she  walks  ...  as 
though  her  body  could  hardly  hide  the  pride  of  its 
condition.  She  is  the  first  expectant  mother  I  ever 


a88  The  Camomile 

saw  that  made  me  feel  there  was  truth  in  Lord 
Nelson's  description — "the  two  most  beautiful  things 
on  earth — a  ship  in  full  sail  and  a  woman  with 
child."  I  suppose  Lady  Hamilton  must  have  looked 
like  Laura. 

When  we  had  drunk  tea  and  I  got  up  to  go,  Laura 
threw  her  arms  round  my  neck  and  kissed  me  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  She  said:  "My  best  wish  for  you, 
Ellen,  is  that  you  will  love  your  husband  as  dearly 
as  I  love  mine!"  And  she  stared  right  into  my  eyes 
through  her  tears  to  see  how  I  was  taking  this  her 
first  declaration  to  me  of  any  feeling  for  Wilfred. 
I  stared  back  at  her,  I  do  hope  kindly  and  believ- 
ingly  .  .  .  but  fearing  that  she  must  see  surprise 
and  questioning  and  nothing  else.  Does  she  after 
all  love  him?  Have  I  been  quite  wrong?  If  I 
was  wrong,  why  such  misery  in  being  with  them? 
I  can't  make  it  out.  Perhaps  it  is  the  baby.  She 
talked — for  her — a  great  deal  about  it.  She  sr. 
she  hoped  very  much  that  it  would  be  a  girl,  be- 
cause then  it  would  always  be  "such  a  companion" 
for  her.  I  have  been  thinking  this  over,  and  find 
that  I  should  want  mine  to  be  a  boy,  perhaps  just 
for  that  same  reason.  I  have  so  many  "ploys"  of 
my  own  that  I  shouldn't  want  children  for  com- 
panionship (I'm  not  sure  that  I  shouldn't  find  the 


The  Camomile  289 

companionship  of  a  husband  almost  too  much  for 
me! )  I'd  rather  my  children  had  their  own  "ploys," 
and  would  let  mine  alone,  which  I  think  boys  more 
than  girls  likely  to  do.  Besides,  fancy  for  any  rea- 
son wanting  girls  rather  than  boys  if  one  could 
choose! 

November  3.  Sunday.  It  seems  years  since  those 
weeks  in  London.  Lay  miserably  awake  last  night 
asking  myself  why  D.  and  I  had  got  engaged.  Was 
there  anything  more  in  it  than  with  ninety-nine  out 
of  a  hundred  engagements?  Need  there  be  more? 
Lovely  sunshine,  flowers,  the  excitement  of  a  fa- 
miliar face  in  unfamiliar  surroundings,  the  feeling 
of  attraction  growing  stronger  and  stronger  every 
moment,  betraying  itself  in  every  look  and  move- 
ment till  at  last  the  moment  comes  when  holding 
out  any  longer  becomes  impossible,  and  without  a 
word  the  two  fall  into  each  other's  arms.  Sweet  .  .  . 
inevitable?  .  .  .  anyhow  perfectly  natural.  Isn't 
it  enough?  Why  then  this  tortured  questioning 
now?  For,  alas,  it  is  true!  Hardly  a  day  or  a  night 
passes  but  I  am  full  of  doubt.  Did  Laura  endure 
this?  Yet  she  is  radiant  now  at  the  prospect  of 
having  a  child.  She  even  says  she  loves  Wilfred, 
though  she  was  certainly  not  in  love  with  him  dur- 


290  The  Camomile 

ing  the  engagement.  And  Duncan  and  I  are  surely 
in  love.  Madge,  I  suppose,  has  no  such  troubles. 
I  wish  I  were  like  Madge. 

I  do  love  Duncan.  I  miss  him  terribly  .  .  .  have 
only  to  call  up  his  face  and  voice  to  feel  the  old 
response  rise  in  me.  But  his  letters  rouse  nothing 
but  criticism,  and  in  return  I  can't  write  more  than 
a  few  lines  without  a  sense  of  falseness.  Does  he 
feel  the  same?  I  have  asked  him,  but  he  seems  not 
to  understand  the  question.  He  simply  repeats  what 
is,  of  course,  true,  that  letters  are  bound  to  be  un- 
satisfactory things.  Then  why  did  he  not  marry 
me?  If  he  knew  that  letters  were  unsatisfactory, 
why  did  he  take  such  a  risk?  7  didn't  know  they 
would  be  unsatisfactory,  yet  I  fought  not  to  let 
him  go. 

I  suppose  that  is  the  trouble.  So  far  we  followed 
nature  blindly,  but  Duncan  will  not  have  us  follow 
her  to  the  end.  He  calls  a  halt.  To  start  with,  he 
says  he  loves  me  for  my  naturalness.  Then  he  be- 
gins to  rule  lines  across  the  way  toward  which  every 
natural  impulse  points.  And  what  about  after  we 
are  married?  Where  will  the  lines  be  ruled  then  if 
I  am  to  please  him?  In  how  much  am  I  to  be 
myself,  in  how  much  assume  a  role  laid  down  by 
him?  Could  I  submit  to  his  ruling  even  for  love 


The  Camomile  291 

of  him?  Do  I  love  him  at  all  to  ask  such  ques- 
tions? If  I  did  love  him,  should  I  not  want  at 
all  costs  to  be  his  and  take  the  rest  on  trust,  ready 
to  do  my  best,  risking  any  failure  gaily?  Does 
he  ever  question  himself,  or  is  he  secure  as  a  rock? 
Does  he  feel  any  fear  at  all  that  my  love  is  less  stable 
than  his?  Or  is  it  just  that,  knowing  me  so  well  as 
he  does,  he  knows  that  I  shall  keep  faith  with  him 
whether  I  have  doubts  or  not.  I  expect  if  I  could  see 
him  now,  he  would  in  an  instant  laugh  my  fears  away 
and  wrap  me  up  in  his  own  security.  How  I  wish 
I  could  run  to  him  and  hide  in  his  love  as  in  a 
cloak!  I  am  like  a  shivering,  naked  creature  with 
no  faith  in  myself  or  hi  my  ability  to  love. 

November  5.  Since  Keswick  Aunt  H.  has  been 
unflagging  in  her  missionary  zeal.  She  lays  a  regu- 
lar siege,  and  is  always  planning  to  take  me  to  some 
meeting  or  other,  especially  if  there  is  anything  go- 
ing about  India.  Sometimes  I  go  just  to  please  her, 
but  increasingly  often  because  in  a  meeting  I  can 
sit  and  think  without  any  one  wanting  to  talk  to 
me.  I  have  long  been  an  adept  at  not  listening. 

This  dark,  cold,  drizzling  weather  is  depressing. 

November  7.   Did  I  so  simply  follow  nature  when 


292  The  Camomile 

I  yielded  to  Duncan's  attraction,  went  into  his  arms 
and  said  I  would  marry  him?  Was  I  not  partly  obey- 
ing the  convention  which  bids  us  do  such  things  at 
such  times?  I  think  there  were  the  two  things  driv- 
ing us  both  on.  For  me  there  was  my  growing  need 
of  marriage,  and  the  attractiveness  of  Duncan,  but 
there  was  also  the  desire  to  do  what  is  held  to  be 
the  right  thing,  and  so  to  become  a  part  with  the 
great  world  which  till  then  had  always  seemed  to 
thrust  me  out  from  its  common  experience. 

My  thoughts  wheel  round  and  round  and  I  get 
no  peace.  Will  Duncan  be  happy  with  me  when 
he  finds  out  what  I  am  really  like?  He  himself 
seems  so  beautifully  simple  that  I  long  most  lov- 
ingly for  him.  Yet  again,  isn't  there  something 
wrong  about  the  kind  of  simplicity  that  just  shuts 
its  eyes  to  what  it  doesn't  want  to  see? 

I  don't  know.  I  know  nothing.  There  will  be 
a  letter  from  him  to-morrow,  his  first  since  actu- 
ally starting  work.  Perhaps  he  will  say  something 
quite  unconsciously  that  will  help  and  settle  me. 
It  is  always  the  unconscious  things  that  help  most 
.  .  .  hurt  most  too,  perhaps. 

I  am  drawing  up  a  scheme  of  work  and  activi- 
ties to  fill  up  my  days  till  Christmas  .  .  .  must 
keep  from  futile  thinking  .  .  .  better  not  think  at 


The  Camomile  293 

all  than  think  uselessly  in  circles  as  I  have  been 
doing. 

November  8.  Nothing  special  in  D.'s  letter,  yet 
it  cheered  me  a  bit.  He  seems  so  perfectly  happy. 
Perhaps  he  is  right  about  my  being  morbid.  .  .  . 

Started  writing  a  short  story  this  morning,  and  got 
on  fairly  well.  Wrote  a  longer  letter  than  usual  to 
Duncan.  Paid  calls  with  Aunt  H. 

November  12.  Crossing  Renfield  Street  to-day, 
was  as  nearly  as  possible  knocked  down  by  a  taxi. 
The  mud-guard  did  actually  strike  against  me  and 
the  driver  dismounted  to  ask  if  I  was  hurt.  Had 
been  so  deep  in  my  thoughts  that  for  the  moment 
I  had  quite  forgotten  where  I  was.  Only  laughed 
at  first,  but  after  five  minutes  felt  suddenly  so  very 
shaky  that  I  had  to  go  and  sit  down  in  a  shop. 
Incident  would  not  be  worth  recording  if  it  had 
not,  while  I  was  sitting  collecting  myself,  recalled 
very  vividly  a  thought  I  had  utterly  forgotten — 
indeed,  not  noticed  much  at  the  time.  It  was  in 
London  ...  the  morning  of  the  day  Duncan  and 
I  got  engaged  .  .  .  had  walked  by  myself  all  the 
way  into  town  from  West  Hampstead,  going  through 
Hyde  Park  .  .  .  had  been  up  late  the  night  be- 


294  The  Camomile 

fore,  and  by  the  time  I  reached  Marble  Arch  began 
to  feel  tired.  The  traffic  made  me  nervous,  so  that 
twice  over  I  started  to  cross  and  had  to  run  back, 
though  other  people  got  to  the  other  side  almost 
without  hurrying.  Then  there  came  such  a  close- 
packed  stream  of  traffic  that  I  had  to  wait  some 
minutes  for  any  chance  at  all.  I  watched  the  peo- 
ple driving  past  in  cabs  and  carriages,  cars  and 
buses  .  .  .  they  all  looked  so  safe,  so  delivered 
from  my  painful  anxiety,  being  borne  along  like  that 
through  everything.  It  didn't  matter  to  them  how 
dense  the  traffic  was.  They  trusted  perfectly  to 
their  drivers.  One  woman's  face  I  specially  noticed. 
She  was  in  a  brougham,  leaning  back  comfortably, 
playing  with  a  pet  dog.  She  looked  at  the  crowds 
on  the  pavement  with  pleased  indifference.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  she  had  something  of  Madge 
in  her  face — the  same  short  nose  and  upper  lip  ... 
anyhow,  it  came  to  me  suddenly  that  never  to  be 
married  would  be  like  coping  with  the  world's  traffic 
all  one's  life  on  foot,  not  once  getting  a  lift,  not 
once  being  able  to  lean  back  in  security  watching 
the  stream  of  life  with  interest,  always  having  to 
gaze  anxiously  at  it  with  the  fear  of  turning  tired 
or  giddy,  and  so  of  getting  submerged.  Marriage 
seemed  like  some  divinely  appointed  wheeled  chariot 


The  Camomile  295 

into  which  a  woman  could  climb  and  be  carried 
along  the  great  high  roads. 

Now  that  I  come  to  write  it  down,  this  thought, 
which  at  the  time  took  but  an  instant  to  pass 
through  my  mind,  seems  both  complicated  and 
exaggerated.  At  the  moment  it  seemed  no  more 
important  than  a  dozen  other  thoughts  that  came 
before  and  after  it.  But — and  this  is  my  reason 
for  trying  to  set  it  down  here — remembering  it  to- 
day, when  the  taxi  had  touched  me,  I  was  compelled 
to  remember  also  what  I  had  as  completely  for- 
gotten— that  when  Duncan  kissed  me  on  the  evening 
of  that  day,  the  thought  of  the  morning  flashed  again 
in  me.  Did  it  make  me  readier  to  listen  and  re- 
spond? Am  I  partly  marrying  Duncan  to  get  a 
lift?  So  long  as  I  care  for  him  do  such  things 
matter?  But  suppose  the  chariot  of  marriage  sweeps 
me  far,  far  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the  road 
I  naturally  wish  to  walk  along?  Does  that  matter 
either?  Do  I  really  know  what  I  most  want? 

November  13.  Fogs  have  started  early  this  year. 
For  two  days  now  we  have  had  dense  yellow  fog. 
It  has  even  got  into  the  house.  If  one  opens  a 
door  or  window  it  breathes  horribly  in  one's  face 
like  some  huge  monster.  I  sat  all  morning  at  home 


296  The  Camomile 

to-day  trying  at  intervals  to  practise,  but  each  time 
ended  by  leaning  my  head  on  my  hands.  My  whole 
body  ached.  Madge  ran  in  to  see  me.  She  looked 
all  the  prettier  for  the  weather.  The  frost  had  red- 
dened her  cheeks  and  brightened  her  eyes,  and  the 
fog  had  drawn  black  lines  under  them  as  if  she  had 
been  made  up.  When  I  said  I  was  feeling  very 
low,  she  laughed.  Madge  is  always  philosophical 
where  other  people's  troubles  are  concerned.  I  don't 
think  she  really  believes  in  them  unless  the  other 
person  can  show  at  least  a  broken  bone.  She  sim- 
ply laughs  and  says,  "Never  you  mind!" 

In  the  afternoon,  went  to  my  poor  old  Room  and 
sat  for  some  hours  trying  to  write  till  my  hands  were 
nearly  frozen  .  .  .  had  to  give  the  fire  up  after  one 
or  two  attempts,  but  even  so,  it  seemed  better  than 
sitting  at  home  with  Aunt  H.  coming  in  every  few 
minutes.  Then  began  looking  through  old  work  and 
tore  up  heaps,  including  the  play  "Influence."  Why 
keep  them?  The  sight  of  them  would  only  make  me 
fret  if  I  did  cart  them  away  with  me  to  India.  Be- 
sides, surely  if  there  is  anything  worth  while  in 
them  it  will  come  again  to  me  later  on  and  perhaps 
in  some  better  form.  Not  that  I  am  positive  about 
this.  For  the  present,  though,  I  must  give  up  all 


The  Camomile  297 

idea  of  writing  .  .  .  shall  only  go  on  with  this  jour- 
nal till  my  marriage  day. 

November  14.    Third  day  of  fog. 

November  15.  Still  fog-bound  and  wretched.  As 
if  the  air  will  never  be  clear  again.  Everything, 
even  inside  the  house,  is  black  to  the  touch,  the 
chimneys  have  taken  to  smoking  at  home  as  well 
as  in  my  Room,  the  water  is  tepid  in  the  boiler. 
Could  anything  I  should  have  had  to  put  up  with 
in  India  be  as  bad  as  this?  Started  a  sore  throat 
last  night  and  this  morning  have  a  raging  cold.  All 
the  same,  went  into  town  to  have  a  linen  riding 
habit  fitted.  Shivered  the  whole  time.  On  getting 
home  found  a  long  letter  from  Duncan,  which  I 
seized  upon  eagerly.  He  writes  chiefly  of  tennis 
parties  and  dances,  which  does  not  help  much,  but 
I  take  what  comfort  I  can  from  the  words  of  love 
at  the  end. 

Later.  Got  to  bed  after  a  mustard  and  soda  bath. 
Fairly  sure  I  shall  not  be  out  of  bed  again  for  some 
days  so  took  care  to  write  first  to  Don  John  say- 
ing I  was  ill  and  begging  him  to  write.  Refrained 
from  asking  him  to  come  to  see  me  as  I  thought  it 


298  The  Camomile 

would  be  no  use,  but  feel  sure  a  quiet  talk  with  him 
would  help  me  to  get  into  a  better  frame  of  mind. 
Wrote  to  Duncan  too,  but  had  to  make  a  fearful 
effort  (which  I  always  seem  driven  to  do  with  him) 
to  seem  cheerful  when  I'm  the  opposite.  Posted 
both  letters  myself,  running  out  in  the  fog  while 
my  bath  was  filling.  Raw  air  and  filthy  underfoot 
.  .  .  but  I  think  it  is  going  to  thaw  .  .  .  that's  one 
mercy. 

November  16.  Thaw  sure  enough.  Fog  quite 
gone  .  .  .  clear  and  mild  and  sunshiny  .  .  .  only 
the  mud  looks  disagreeable.  Not  up  yet,  anyhow. 
Had  temperature  of  102  in  the  morning  so  Aunt  H. 
sent  for  the  doctor,  who  says  it  is  influenza.  Ach- 
ing all  over,  especially  my  loins.  Lay  dozing  and 
miserable,  yet  the  day  passed  quickly.  I  do  hope 
Don  John  will  write. 

November  17.  Sunday.  In  spite  of  dozing 
through  the  day,  lay  wide  enough  awake  all  night 
till  five  A.M.  ^All  my  thoughts  tended  toward  an 
intense  dislike  of  my  own  character,  circumstances, 
everything  connected  with  myself.  If  only  I  could 
shed  my  temperament  without  losing  my  sense  of 
identity!  I  don't  want  to  die,  but  how  differently  I 
should  like  to  live  I 


The  Camomile  299 

Yet  when  at  length  I  asked  myself  with  what 
person  known  to  me  I  would  completely  change  na- 
tures, I  could  not  truthfully  think  of  any  one.  I 
felt  I  could  not  be  sure  that  any  one  of  those  others 
I  envied  ever  feels  so  intensely,  almost  excruciatingly 
happy  as  I  do  at  times  for  no  apparent  cause.  And 
I  could  not  risk  losing  these  moments  in  exchange 
for  anything  else.  The  other  day,  for  instance, 
when  I  was  walking  over  the  hill  and  met  Don 
John  .  .  .  the  whole  of  life — pain  as  well  as  pleas- 
ure, evil  as  well  as  good — appeared  to  me  as  a  har- 
mony which  could  not  be  heard  but  with  extreme 
ecstasy. 

November  18.  In  the  morning  my  temperature 
was  below  normal.  The  doctor  made  me  stay  in 
bed,  but  I  read  and  slept  and  felt  better.  All  my 
feelings  and  perceptions  blunted  again.  Things 
that  yesterday  appeared  crucial  have  receded. 
Nothing  seems  to  matter  much.  The  doctor  came 
again  at  night  and  said  I  was  going  on  well  .  .  . 
praised  my  constitution  for  "functioning  admirably." 
In  the  afternoon  I  wrote  very  affectionately  to 
Duncan. 

November  19.  After  good  night's  sleep  felt  all 
right.  Got  up  and  tried  to  practise,  but  then  felt 


3OO  The  Camomile 

so  weak  and  giddy  that  I  had  to  give  up  in  a  few 
minutes.  Went  back  to  bed  and  lay  without  any 
thoughts,  good  or  bad.  Aunt  H.  very  sweet.  D.  J. 
hasn't  written. 

November  2o.  It  snowed  in  the  night  and  was 
lovely  this  morning  with  blue  sky  and  sunshine. 
Got  up  for  breakfast  and  thought  of  going  to  En- 
drick  Street,  but  by  about  eleven  the  sky  grew  dark 
and  another  fog  descended,  so  I  stayed  indoors  and 
wrote  to  Duncan,  after  reading  over  all  the  letters 
I  have  had  from  him.  How  I  wish  I  knew  what  he 
feels  for  me  apart  from  all  this  business  of  mar- 
rying a  wife!  His  letters  do  not  tell  me.  He  never 
seems  to  wonder  what  I  feel  for  him.  So  long  as 
I've  said  I'll  marry  him,  that's  all  he  cares  to  know. 
Perhaps  all  men  are  like  this.  One  knows  very 
little  of  men  and  their  thoughts  and  feelings.  Fog 
or  no  fog,  I'll  go  to-morrow  to  Endrick  Street. 

November  21.  Don  John  is  dead.  He  died  yes- 
terday of  pneumonia.  I  went  to  Endrick  Street  to- 
day, and  he  was  lying  dead  in  his  room.  Spent  a 
long  time  there  morning  and  afternoon. 

November  22.  Went  to-night  to  St.  Ignatius  R.  C. 
Church  and  saw  D.  J.  for  the  last  time.  His  brother 


The  Camomile  3011 

from  Newcastle  is  looking  after  things.  The  body 
was  in  the  coffin  before  the  altar  clothed  in  priestly 
vestments.  Funeral  to-morrow,  but  I  shall  not  go. 

November  23.  Very  shaky  when  I  rose.  Took 
almost  an  hour  to  dress  with  pauses  for  weakness. 
Train  to  Loch  Lomond.  Went  to  the  place  where 
Duncan  and  I  had  sat  that  last  evening.  Saw  every- 
thing about  myself  and  him  with  perfect  clearness, 
the  kind  of  clearness  that  has  to  be  acted  upon. 
Walked  back  to  Helensburgh.  Very  cold  but  no 
wind  .  .  .  the  sky  covered  with  ribbed  cloud  like 
miles  and  miles  of  sand  when  the  tide  is  out.  Had 
to  wait  an  hour  for  a  train  and  reached  home  chilled 
to  the  bone.  Did  not  sleep,  though  my  mind  was 
made  up. 

November  24.  Sunday.  Wrote  to  Duncan  break- 
ing off  our  engagement.  Made  it  quite  final.  Told 
Aunt  Harry.  Called  and  told  Dr.  Bruce,  also  Madge 
and  Laura,  who  both  happened  to  be  there.  Have 
done  for  myself  now.  Wrote  to  Ronald.  Wrote 
short  note  to  Ruby.  At  six  o'clock  felt  pretty  ill. 
Wrote  up  diary  of  last  two  days.  This  ends,  I  think, 
the  journal  of  my  old  life.  Now  I  shall  either  die 
or  start  the  new  life.  Don't  want  to  die. 


End  of  the  Journal 

"Also,  vorwarts  .  .  ." 

Sunday,  December  8. 

25  BLANDFORD  TERRACE, 

GLASGOW. 
MY  DEAREST  RUBY: 

I  have  just  re-read  your  last  letter  written  ten 
days  ago  in  answer  to  my  note  about  Duncan  and 
me.  At  the  time  I  blessed  my  stars  for  it,  feeling 
it  to  be  full  of  friendliness  and  understanding.  Ar- 
riving in  the  midst  of  my  disgrace  with  everybody 
here,  it  certainly  seemed  so.  After  the  non- 
comprehension  and  distress  of  Aunt  Harry,  the  chill 
condemnation  of  Laura,  the  furious  disapproval 
(mixed  with  indubitable  relief)  of  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Bruce,  and  the  complete  removal  of  Madge's  friend- 
ship, I  drank  up  your  few  and  careful  words  like 
drops  of  water  in  a  desert. 

And  yet,  my  dear  friend,  though  I  cling  to  the 
hope  that  this  may  be  due  to  my  generally  flayed 
condition  at  the  moment,  on  re-reading  those  same 
words  this  morning  I  feel  all  unsure  again.  I  have 

JOJ 


304  The  Camomile 

the  sad  idea  that  from  mere  dislike  of  wounding 
me,  you  were  trying,  as  you  wrote,  to  hide  certain 
puzzled  and  reproachful  thoughts. 

I  agree  with  you  that  "jilt"  is  an  ugly  word.  Quite 
right,  too,  for  it  is  an  ugly,  indeed  an  unforgivable 
action.  I  have  always  thought  so,  and  do  still. 
But  surely  you,  of  all  people,  will  agree  with  me 
that  no  number  of  fine,  pretty  or  commendable  ac- 
tions can  ever  turn  a  false  position  into  a  true  one. 
And  once  I  knew  clearly  that  the  position  was  false, 
I  could  see  no  alternative  but  to  act  in  this  ugly 
manner  and  so  end  it.  At  the  time  I  only  managed 
to  scrawl  that  single  line  to  you.  For  one  thing  I 
was  ill.  For  another  it  is  the  simple  truth  that  my 
life  was  cut  in  two  by  Don  John's  death  as  by 
lightning,  and  at  such  times  one  cannot  sit  down 
and  write  at  length.  This  reminds  me  that  ij  I  am 
right  in  my  new  reading  of  your  letter,  the  cause 
may  lie  with  me  for  having  told  you  the  mere  fact 
so  baldly  and  without  explanations.  In  that  des- 
perate moment  I  counted  on  your  taking  everything 
on  trust.  But  if  you  couldn't,  well,  you  could  not, 
and  the  sooner  one  knows  that  one  has  to  stand 
quite  alone  in  the  world,  the  better. 

To  you,  though,  above  all,  indeed  only  to  you, 
Ruby,  do  I  now  want  to  plead  my  own  cause  as  far 


The  Camomile  305 

as  it  can  be  pleaded.  I  am  out  of  bed  to-day  for 
the  first  time  this  fortnight,  and  for  the  first  time 
I  feel  I  must  put  before  you  as  clearly  and  soberly 
as  possible  what  the  facts  were  that  made  me  change, 
or  rather  what  it  was  that  directed  me  with  such 
terrible  clearness  that  I  had  no  choice  but  to  obey. 
Not  that  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  explain  why  the  sight 
of  Don  John's  dead  face  should  have  made  all  this 
difference  when  no  living  word  or  action  of  his  could 
have  had  such  power.  I  see  him  now  much  as  I 
always  saw  him,  as  a  poor  scholar  with  whom  I  never 
became  very  intimate,  and  as  a  lover  of  truth  whom 
I  admired  because  he  had  chosen  failure  rather  than 
bolster  up  his  weakness  by  accepting  what  to  him 
was  a  lie,  also  because  he  never  once  complained  of 
the  result  even  while  he  admitted  it.  To  Duncan 
I  have  not  so  much  as  named  him  in  connection 
with  breaking  our  engagement.  To  have  done  so 
would  only  have  been  an  irritation,  besides  confus- 
ing the  issue  between  us.  For  there  is  nothing  in 
me  now  that  was  not  there  before.  It  was  merely 
that  Don  John's  death  crystallized  what  before  was 
confused  and  obscure.  If  Duncan  would  have  me 
I'd  go  at  once  and  live  with  him.  I'd  go  with  joy. 
With  joy  I'd  keep  the  real  essence  of  my  pledge  with 
him.  It  is  only  that  I  cannot  marry  him.  He  and 


306  The  Camomile 

I  were  never  meant  to  be  husband  and  wife.  But 
where  would  be  the  use  of  offering  him  anything  but 
what  he  has  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wants?  So 
I  had  to  tell  him  simply  that  I  would  not  be  his  wife 
and  that  nothing  now  could  alter  my  decision. 

Let  me  try  now  to  tell  you  how  things  came  to  this 
point  with  me. 

On  November  21,  after  having  been  ki  bed  a 
few  days  with  a  bad  cold  I  called  at  Don  John's 
lodging  and  asked  the  landlady  if  he  was  in.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  done  this  uninvited,  but 
something  drove  me  to  it.  She  said  he  had  died 
the  day  before,  and  at  once  with  an  air  half  injured, 
half  elated,  began  to  tell  me  how  devotedly  she  had 
nursed  him — "jist  as  if  he'd  been  yin  o'  ma  ain,"  as 
she  put  it,  and  that  she  hoped  I  would  come  and 
speak  for  her  to  Don  John's  brother  who  was  ar- 
riving from  Newcastle  that  evening  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  the  funeral.  It  was  easy  enough  without 
listening  to  her  explanations  about  the  illness  to 
guess  what  had  happened — a  bad  chill  which  Don 
John  would  neglect  and  no  one  else  notice  .  .  .  that 
threadbare  overcoat  of  his  ...  those  four  terrible 
days  of  fog.  .  .  .  She  took  me  to  his  room,  whining 
and  sniffing  all  the  way,  and  though  I  hated  her  and 
was  fairly  sure  she  had  done  no  more  than  she  had 


The  Camomile  307 

to  for  Don  John  (which  with  her  would  not  be  much) 
I  felt  a  bit  sorry  for  her  too,  and  promised  I'd  see 
the  brother  next  day.  At  Don  John's  door  I  man- 
aged to  shake  her  off. 

I  had  never  seen  a  dead  person  before.  I  waited 
till  I  heard  the  landlady  go  away,  then  crossed  to 
the  bed  and  with  shrinking  curiosity  turned  back  the 
sheet  that  was  over  his  face.  I  had  heard  that 
there  was  majesty,  even  beauty,  in  death.  I  saw 
none  here — that  is,  not  at  first.  At  first  I  simply 
could  not  believe  that  that  long,  yellow,  tallowy  face, 
tied  up  with  a  large,  folded  handkerchief  and  with 
a  penny  on  each  eyelid,  could  have  any  connection 
with  my  friend,  Don  John.  The  features  were 
pinched  and  severe.  I  was  so  shattered  by  the  gro- 
tesque sadness  of  it  that  I  broke  down  hysterically. 
I'd  have  given  anything  at  that  moment  not  to  have 
looked,  but  to  have  kept  the  memory  of  his  face  as 
I  last  saw  it  alive  that  day  we  sat  on  the  hill  and 
talked. 

I  cried  so  that  I  thought  I  should  never  be  able 
to  stop.  But  touching  his  books  helped  to  calm  me, 
and  after  a  while  I  went  back  and  began  to  tend 
him,  taking  the  pennies  from  his  eyes,  and  untying 
the  handkerchief  for  which  I  could  not  see  the  need 
any  longer.  I  stayed  a  long  time  in  his  room,  then 


308  The  Camomile 

went  out  and  got  some  Christmas  roses — he  had 
no  flowers,  of  course — and  put  them  in  his  hands, 
and  again  I  sat  a  long  time  beside  him.  I  didn't 
feel  sorry  for  him  any  more.  Dying  seemed  much 
the  best  thing  he  could  have  done.  The  more  I 
thought,  the  more  distinctly  I  understood  the  mean- 
ing of  his  life,  and  his  death  seemed  to  set  the  seal 
on  it.  He  had  failed  in  life,  but  he  had  stood  for 
something  more  precious  and  important  than  suc- 
cess, and  now  his  humiliation  and  misery,  which  I 
had  often  felt  so  bitterly,  ceased  to  count.  Instead, 
his  plain  and  unpretentious  truthfulness  appeared 
like  a  star  and  showed  me  my  own  falseness.  I  knew 
then  where  my  place  was.  I  knew — though  I  hate 
and  fear  failure — that  I  would  rather  end  like  Don 
John  than  succeed  on  the  lines  that  marriage  with 
Duncan  would  inevitably  rule  out  for  me. 

When  I  got  home  I  was  thankful  to  find  that  Aunt 
Harry  was  out  at  a  meeting.  For  the  first  time  I 
was  glad  that  Ronald  was  away.  I  could  not  have 
borne  to  talk  to  any  one  or  to  hear  any  one  speak 
to  me.  I  tried  to  make  an  entry  in  my  journal,  but 
found  I  could  not  write  more  than  a  few  lines,  so 
I  went  to  bed  and  almost  immediately  fell  asleep. 

Next  day  I  went  to  see  the  brother.  He  is  a 
good  deal  older  than  D.  J.  and  handsomer — very 


TKe  Camomile  309 

dignified  and  handsome  and  religious-looking,  with 
a  large  gold  cross  on  his  waist-coat.  He  and  I  were 
at  daggers  drawn  from  the  first.  He  said  nothing 
exactly  harsh,  but  made  me  think  all  the  time  of 
old  Mr.  Dudgeon  with  his  "a  sad  business,  a  very 
sad  business!"  while  his  thoughts  were  clearly  on 
much  more  mundane  matters.  He  kept  telling  me — 
as  if  I  needed  to  be  told — how  gifted  D.  J.  was, 
and  how  he  had  deliberately  thrown  away  and 
wasted  his  gifts.  In  all  he  said  I  was  sure  that  his 
real  feelings  were  simple  irritation  and  anger  against 
D.  J.  for  not  having  acted  according  to  his  stand- 
ards. "So-and-so,"  he  said,  "with  half  my  poor 
brother's  talents,  is  now  a  monsignor  in  Rome."  I 
tried  to  tell  him  how  I  admired,  indeed  revered, 
D.  J.,  what  he  had  stood  for  to  me,  how  he  had 
helped  me,  but  this  he  brushed  aside  as  a  mere  im- 
pertinence. At  the  moment  I  was  almost  ready  to 
allow  that  it  was,  but  later  I  saw  that  it  was  no 
such  thing.  Mr.  Barnaby — the  brother — would 
have  it  that  D.  J.  would  have  done  far  more  good 
in  the  world  if  he  had  remained  in  a  position  of 
influence,  however  false  to  himself  that  position 
might  be.  But  is  all  the  influence  of  a  false  atti- 
tude worth  a  fig?  And  how  can  any  one  measure 
or  limit  the  good  that  must  flow  unseen  from  an 


3io  The  Camomile 

attitude  of  simple  but  determined  honesty?  D.  J.'s 
wisdom  and  worth  are  not  trumpeted  abroad.  He 
got  nothing  out  of  them.  But  in  some  way  they 
are  bound  to  be  made  known,  and  his  having  so 
wonderfully  helped  an  unimportant  person  like  my- 
self to  be  honest  is  surely  at  least  a  proof  of  his 
usefulness  in  the  world?  His  failure — that  he  could 
not  stand  up  against  a  besetting  weakness  after  dis- 
carding a  false  start — is  but  another  pointer  to  his 
virtue.  For  he  had  nothing  to  gain,  everything  to 
lose  by  choosing  to  be  honest.  Yet  he  chose  hon- 
esty and  never  once  complained. 

When  Mr.  Barnaby  told  me  that  there  seemed  to 
be  "a  sort  of  will"  written  on  a  half  sheet  of  paper 
the  day  his  brother  died,  and  that  by  it  /  was  to 
have  "possession  of  D.  J.'s  manuscripts  and  books," 
I  hardly  knew  what  to  do  for  surprise  and  gratitude. 
Here  is  the  will: 

".  .  .  subject  to  the  satisfaction  of  such  claims  as 
my  family  may  make  in  respect  of  my  funeral  ex- 
penses, I  leave  to  my  young  and  dearly  loved  friend, 
Ellen  Carstairs,  my  collection  of  books,  knowing 
that  she  will  value  them,  and  to  her  also  I  bequeath 
my  manuscript  writings  and  the  copyright  therein 


The  Camomile  311 

absolutely,  giving  no  direction  as  to  their  publica- 
tion which  I  leave  in  her  unfettered  discretion." 

Mr.  B.  was  clearly  reluctant  to  tell  me  about  this, 
but  he  could  not  very  well  get  out  of  showing  it  to 
me.  He  was  specially  vexed  about  the  manuscripts, 
but  tried  hard  to  suppress  his  vexation,  and  assured 
me  many  times  that  I  should  find  nothing  in  his 
brother's  writings  worthy  of  preservation.  He 
wanted  to  have  them  destroyed  on  the  spot,  but  I 
need  not  tell  you  I  have  them  all  safely  at  home 
and  regard  them  as  my  chief  treasure.  As  yet  I 
have  not  been  able  to  do  more  than  just  glance 
through  them  (there's  a  great  heap),  but  even  with 
my  unlearned  eyes  I  feel  certain  there  is  valuable 
work  in  my  keeping.  I  mean  to  consult  the  best 
judges  of  such  matters  in  London.  Who  knows  but 
that  D.  J.'s  name  will  yet  become  famous! 

By  this  time  the  body  had  been  removed  by  Mr. 
Baraaby's  order  to  St.  Ignatius's,  a  Roman  Catholic 
chapel  not  far  from  Endrick  Street.  I  went  there 
by  myself.  It  is  a  low-roofed,  bare  shed  of  a  place, 
being,  I  think,  only  a  temporary  affair  till  a  proper 
church  can  be  built.  It  was  empty  except  for  a 
verger  who  knelt  at  one  side  of  the  altar,  and  dark 


312  The  Camomile 

but  for  two  candles  that  were  nearly  burnt  down. 
The  coffin  lay  on  trestles  near  the  hardly  noticeable 
altar,  and  though  the  lid  was  on,  it  was  not  screwed 
down.  The  verger  (I  think  he  was  asleep)  never 
looked  round  or  moved  when  I  raised  the  coffin  lid 
a  few  inches.  I  was  greatly  astonished  to  find  that 
they  had  dressed  Don  John  in  priestly  vestments, 
all  white  but  for  the  black  biretta  on  his  head.  I 
suppose  that,  once  ordained,  even  though  he 
afterwards  became  a  renegade,  this  was  his  right 
in  death.  I  rejoiced  in  the  fitness  of  this.  Even 
as  a  priest  should,  he  had  pointed  out  my  way  to 
me,  and  I  felt  sure  he  would  not  have  refused  to 
be  so  robed  if  he  could  have  chosen.  In  the  shadow 
of  the  biretta  his  face  looked  calm  and  satisfied. 
I  too,  though  I  knew  what  I  had  to  do,  felt  calm, 
looking  at  it.  I  could  not  look  long,  though,  for  the 
lid  was  fearfully  heavy  to  hold  up,  also  I  was  afraid 
the  verger  or  whoever  he  was  (clearly  not  a  priest, 
merely  some  kind  of  attendant  whose  duty  it  was  to 
wait  a  few  hours  in  the  church)  might  wake  and  find 
fault  with  me.  I  went  then  and  knelt  down,  and 
the  course  I  must  take  was  clear  before  me.  I  of- 
fered up  thanks  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for 
having  met  Don  John.  Very  soon  the  verger  got 
up,  yawned,  stretched  his  arms,  snuffed  out  the  two 


The  Camomile  313 

long  candles,  and  only  then  seeing  me,  came  over 
and  told  me  in  a  husky,  cross  voice  that  he  had  to 
lock  up  the  church  as  it  was  sunset.  They  had  al- 
lowed Don  John  his  robes  of  office,  but  in  all  other 
ways  he  was  to  be  treated  without  ceremony,  and 
his  body  would  be  left  alone  in  the  locked,  unlighted 
church  until  the  time  of  the  funeral  the  following 
morning.  What  did  this  matter  after  all?  So  the 
verger  bundled  me  out. 

I  did  not  go  to  the  funeral  next  day.  After  lying 
awake  all  night  I  felt  very  ill  and  shaky  in  the 
morning.  But  in  the  afternoon  I  went  downtown 
and  took  the  train  to  Loch  Lomond.  I  just  caught 
the  last  steamer  to  the  place  I  wanted,  and  from 
the  pier,  walking  along  the  shore  road,  I  found  my 
way  easily  to  the  little  copse  and  the  very  patch  of 
shingle  where  Duncan  and  I  had  sat  together  in  our 
last  evening.  This  may  sound  to  you  like  a  piece 
of  sentimentality,  but  I  don't  think  it  was.  A 
strong  instinct  drove  me  to  it,  and  when  I  got  there 
I  knew  my  instinct  had  served  me  well.  I  was  giv- 
ing Duncan  his  full  chance,  letting  him  speak  for 
himself,  and  speak  better  than  he  could  in  a  hun- 
dred letters  or  in  much  actual  speech.  If  his  voice 
was  truer  than  Don  John's  I  should  not  fail  to  hear 
and  obey.  But  oh,  Ruby,  it  was  not!  There  I 


314  The  Camomile 

sat,  not  thinking  at  all,  rather  listening  to  all  Dun- 
can had  to  say  till  it  grew  dark,  and  so  cold  that  I 
was  afraid.  There  wasn't  a  breath  of  wind,  but  it 
was  freezing  hard.  By  this  time,  though,  I  knew 
beyond  all  question  what  I  had  come  to  find  out. 
Many  people  must  have  discovered,  as  I  did  then 
for  the  first  time,  with  what  perfect  certainty  one 
knows  when  one  returns  to  the  scene  of  a  past  emo- 
tion. On  that  second  occasion  it  is  impossible  to 
deceive  oneself  as  to  the  nature  of  one's  feelings  on 
the  first  visit.  And  that  night  I  was  humiliated  un- 
speakably by  the  knowledge  of  my  own  falseness. 
The  very  stones  and  trees  and  lapping  water  of  the 
loch  whispered  to  me  how  dishonest  I  had  been  to 
Duncan  and  myself  when  we  last  sat  there,  but  all 
his  pleadings  were  on  the  side  of  asking  me  to  be 
dishonest  still.  It  was  no  use,  I  knew.  I  could 
never  be  straight  with  Duncan  except  in  the  act  of 
giving  him  up. 

I  had  missed  the  last  steamer  back,  so  had  to  walk 
four  or  five  miles  over  the  hills  to  Helensburgh,  and 
at  Helensburgh  I  had  to  sit  for  an  hour  in  a  dark, 
very  draughty  station  waiting-room  till  I  could  get 
a  train  to  Glasgow.  All  the  time  I  kept  turning 
over  words  and  sentences,  trying  to  find  the  plainest, 


The  Camomile  .315 

most  final,  least  hurtful  way  of  telling  Duncan.  But 
when  I  got  home  I  was  too  tired  to  write,  besides 
feeling  ill  and  thoroughly  chilled.  Again  I  had  a 
fearful  night.  The  next  day  I  managed  to  get  Dun- 
can's letter  written  and  posted.  I  also  told  Aunt 
Harry,  though  I  don't  think  at  the  time  she  took 
it  in  (she  does  now).  And  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  to 
make  the  smash  complete,  I  called  at  the  Bruces' 
house  in  the  afternoon.  As  it  happened,  Madge  and 
her  husband  were  there,  just  returned  from  their 
honeymoon,  and  Laura  also  came  in.  I  told  them 
all  that  the  engagement  between  Duncan  and  me 
was  at  an  end,  and  that  Duncan  was  in  no  way  to 
blame.  At  first  they  pretended  to  think  that  it  was 
some  kind  of  a  bad  joke,  but  very  soon  they  saw  I 
was  in  earnest.  It  was  frightfully  unpleasant,  and 
I  got  away  as  soon  as  I  could  and  went  home  to 
bed.  Not  one  of  them  has  called  to  ask  for  me  since, 
though  they  knew  from  Aunt  Harry  at  church  that 
I  was  pretty  badly  ill.  The  worst  thing  in  the  last 
fortnight,  though,  has  been  the  arrival  of  Duncan's 
unknowing  letters  by  each  Indian  mail.  I  read  the 
first.  The  others  I  had  to  tear  up  unread.  It  will 
be  some  weeks  yet  before  I  can  get  his  answer,  if 
he  writes  at  all  after  getting  my  letter. 


316  The  Camomile 

And  now  what  am  I  going  to  do?  One  thing  is 
sure.  I  shall  leave  Glasgow.  Even  if  I  wanted  to 
stay,  life  here  has  become  impossible  for  me.  And 
Lord  knows  I  don't  want  to  stay.  Indeed,  now  that 
my  health  is  returning  to  me  in  ever  bigger  waves, 
I  can't  restrain  a  wicked  glorying  in  the  fact  that  by 
my  impossible  behavior  I  have  rid  myself  of  the 
whole  incubus — school-friends,  family-friends,  Chris- 
tian-friends— all  at  once.  (I  should  have  told  you 
that  Miss  McRaith  is  palpably  overjoyed — though 
of  course  she  pulls  a  long  face  at  my  catastrophe, 
also  that  she  is  as  firmly  convinced  as  ever  I  was 
in  her  case,  that  Duncan  has  really  been  the  one 
to  break  off  the  engagement!  Twice  when  I  was  in 
bed,  she  played  the  Good  Samaritan  and  brought  me 
flowers  and  grapes!)  I  feel  fearfully  alone  and 
very  much  like  a  shorn  lamb.  Still,  it  is  fine  to  feel 
free,  grand  to  know  that  I  need  trim  no  longer,  that 
I  am  thrust  definitely  and  forever  without  the  pale. 
I  have  sat  long  enough  on  that  same  pale  and  was 
growing  more  sick  of  the  balancing  act  than  I  knew. 

When  Aunt  H.  hears  that  I  mean  to  go  at  the 
New  Year,  she  may  try  to  put  up  a  little  fight.  But 
she  was  content — Ronald,  too — that  I  should  go  far 
away  to  be  married,  so  at  least  I  need  have  no  scru- 
ples about  leaving  her  by  herself. 


The  Camomile  317 

Where  shall  I  go?  Much  depends  on  Ronald's 
letter  in  answer  to  the  long  one  I  have  written  to 
him.  I  expect  to  hear  from  him  any  day  now,  and 
though  I  am  prepared  for  the  gravest  reproof,  I 
don't  think  he  will  forget  his  own  last  promise  and 
suggestion.  If  he  wants  me,  I  may  possibly  go  out 
to  stay  with  him  for  a  time  at  least. 

But  much  too  depends  on  your  next  letter,  Ruby. 
Do  you  remember  when  I  was  in  London,  but  be- 
fore I  got  engaged,  we  talked  over  all  sorts  of  plans 
for  both  leaving  home  and  sharing  rooms  together? 
I  should  like  that  if,  after  all,  you  would  still  care 
for  my  company.  Sooner  or  later  I  am  sure  I  shall 
find  a  job.  Meanwhile  I  have  a  little  money  of  my 
very  own  which,  now  that  I  am  of  age,  Aunt  H. 
cannot  refuse  to  let  me  have.  I  think  it  comes  to 
some  eighty  pounds  a  year,  and  up  till  now  it  has 
always  gone  toward  helping  with  the  housekeeping 
when  I  was  at  home.  When  I  was  in  Frankfort  it 
covered  both  my  living  and  all  fees  at  the  Conserva- 
torium.  I  know  things  are  a  bit  more  expensive  in 
London,  but  /  shall  manage.  All  I  need  is  time  to 
write  I  Honestly  I  have  the  impulse.  I  don't  feel 
elated,  rather  the  reverse,  but  subjects  jostle  one  an- 
other in  my  head  and  I  have  the  will  and  the  ca- 
pacity to  work  hard.  Of  this  I  am  positive — I  am 


318  The  Camomile 

done  with  music  as  a  profession.  Like  the  rest  of 
my  old  life  that  must  be  let  slip.  Any  wage-earning 
work  I  get  now  must  either  be  itself  writing  or  some- 
thing to  do  with  writing  which  will  at  the  same  time 
allow  me  leisure  and  strength  for  working  out  my 
own  ideas.  One  room  in  the  most  unfashionable 
neighborhood  will  hold  me  and  my  books — Don 
John's  books!  I  am  not  counting  on  getting  any 
money  from  his  writings  even  if  I  get  them  pub- 
lished. But  if  anything  ever  should  come  in  from 
them,  I  will  use  it  religiously  to  provide  me  with 
more  time  to  work.  No  one  hi  London  will  live 
more  economically  or  more  laboriously  than  I.  How 
glad  I  am  that  I  am  young  and  strong,  that  life  is 
before  me,  that  already  I  have  tasted  just  enough 
of  the  sweet  and  bitter  of  Reality  to  make  existence 
seem  rich  and  full  of  savor!  I  no  longer  envy  the 
middle-aged.  I  know  at  last  to  what  world  I  irrev- 
ocably belong.  At  least  I  know  that  it  is  not  Dun- 
can's world.  I  have  found  this  out  in  time.  And 
just  because  of  it  I  have  the  whole  of  Duncan's 
world  to  write  about.  One  can  never  write  till  one 
stands  outside. 

"Also,  vorwarts! "  as  Zilcher  used  to  say!    Let  me 
hear  from  you  soon.    If  you  are  not  convinced  by 


The  Camomile  319 

my  apologia  suspend  your  judgment  till  you  see  me. 
Continue  to  be  my  friend  on  trust,  as  I  am  ever 
yours  in  deed. 

ELLEN  CARSTAIRS. 


THE  END 


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